


Broken

by Lemurkat



Series: The Valley & The Void [1]
Category: Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff and Smut, Friendship/Love, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Magic, Rape/Non-con Elements, Romance, Self Harm, Slow Burn, Swearing, be patient there is smut, detailed passages about self harm/cutting, light banter, rural fantasy, two broken people helping each other mend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-06-09 22:21:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 49
Words: 90,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19485196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lemurkat/pseuds/Lemurkat
Summary: Isla's marriage has fallen apart. She's truly teetering on the edge of the abyss. Then she finds a note from her grandfather - and discovers that she's inherited the farm. Accepting the challenge of a new start, she becomes thrust into a world of the magical and mysterious, a town filled with secrets - and what's the deal with the monsters in her garden?Shane has never really felt he has control of his life. Orphaned as a child, his sister was the only family he had - until he lost her too, and became legal guardian of her daughter. Now,  events have dragged him back to Pelican Town; he's working a dead-end job, and trying to keep the black dog at bay - mostly by drowning it in alcohol. He doesn't feel he's fit to be an uncle - let alone a father.Then a newcomer takes over the derelict farm, and finally, his life may have some purpose.But no matter how far you run, the past will always catch up with you.And the Void corrupts.





	1. The Farm

**Author's Note:**

> I fell in love with Stardew Valley, and yes, with Shane's character development, when my husband introduced me to the game last year. However, stories can take you much further than code permits, and I read a number of 'fics on this site, before becoming inspired to write my own. Fiction has allowed me to expand the world, the lore, and some of the relationships between characters, in a way that whilst not entirely canon, is hopefully not (too) contradictory to the core game, and made the world far more real to me than ever I could have imagined. I hope that you will enjoy my take on the characters, and my original additions.
> 
> This story was started in May 2019, and finished in early July, so yes - it is complete. And will probably be uploaded in bulk instalments.  
> I started this story in UK English, then switched to US English, so some of the original spelling may still exist. Please feel free to comment on any typos or inconsistencies that you may find; when I began I had only a vague idea of what a wild ride my tale of Isla and Shane was going to take me on!

Isla’s hand shook as she eased open the top drawer. Her heart fluttered high in her throat, making it hard to breathe, hard even to think. How could he? Why would he? She knew the answer to that – because it was all her fault. But she hadn’t thought... the grief of her grandfather dying, the stress of the promotion, and the extra workload that came with it... They’d only been supposed to calm her nerves, not... not kill her future. Their future. 

She lifted the underwear and drew out the sleek leather sheath. Slid out its contents in a shimmer of silver. Her fingers gently caressed the blade. It bit, hungry for blood – still sharp, still waiting, always waiting. Ready – ready for when she would need it again. And oh, how she needed it now, needed the sharp bite of the razor blade. Her flesh parted beneath its touch, drew back in a wicked red smile. A droplet beaded, bright red, like a tiny jewel. Then another. She flinched a little, tears dancing in her eyes, hazing her vision. She eyed her pulse, fluttering just below the translucent skin of her wrist. So fragile, her flesh. She could do it, slice deep, let the blood escape. But she wouldn’t. Too risky – too damn messy. Besides, wrist slitting rarely worked. If Isla really, really wanted to kill herself (and the thought had crossed her mind oh, pretty much every day since that terrible, tragic day) she would choose something more permanent. A cliff, perhaps, a death dive into the ocean, where the waves would whisk her away, and her body feed the fishes. 

Another slice, parallel to the first, and she felt the heavy weight ease, just a little, as though it too were draining from her. Blood trickled down her arm, mingled with her tears, dripped on her jeans. She set the blade aside, reached into the drawer to fish out a handkerchief, but her fingers brushed paper. An envelope? When had that got there? Curiosity rose, forcing her despair into submission and she drew it out. Light blue, slight creased around the edges, the stationery familiar. Her grandfather! She’d given it to him on his 80th birthday, because what else did you give an old man? 

She had forgotten the letter, pressed into her hand three years ago, when he had moved into respite care, before the demons of dementia completely destroyed his brain. How had she forgotten it? He’d given it to her, told her that one day, when she felt crushed by the burden of life, and all that lay ahead was a growing emptiness, she could open it. At the time, she’d been married six months – and she’d been horrified. Felt almost like he was cursing her relationship. She’d refused to open it. “Just the ramblings of a sick old man,” her mother had insisted. “He doesn’t mean anything by it.” Hadn’t she thrown it out? Obviously not, although she was almost certain she had not placed it in her underwear drawer. How had it got there? And what was in it? Money maybe? She could do with some of that right now. She’d been given two days to pack her things and leave; he was selling the house, their house, the house they had brought together, the house that was going to ring with the laughter of their children, the house in which they would grow old together. He wanted to erase her from his life.  
Blood dripped from her arm, smeared across the envelope. She tied the handkerchief around her wrist. Her grandfather’s prophecy – or whatever kinda bullshit that was – had come true. Life was a fucking wretched burden, and all that lay ahead was a dark miserable void. 

And perhaps it contained money. 

She sliced it open with the razor blade; it tore the paper as smoothly as it bit her flesh. There were two pieces of paper inside, folded against one another. One, handwritten on notepaper that matched the envelope, in her grandfather’s shaky hand:  
_“Dear Isla,_  
If you’re reading this, you’re obviously in dire need of a change.”  
Too right, she thought and read through. Then read it again. She unfolded the other piece of paper. It was much older, the paper weathered and crumpled at the edges, the creases deep enough that they were almost tears.  
“Holy Yoba,” she whispered. “He’s left me the farm.”  


*

Her pocket trilled with an incoming message. Isla set the final carton next to the pile on the porch, fished the phone from her coat and glanced at the screen. Four words, cold and to the point: Have you signed them?  
Isla stared at the message. There were so many ways in which she could reply, so many things she could say: That she was sorry. Sorry she couldn’t be the perfect wife, couldn’t give him the perfect family. Sorry that things had gone so very, very wrong. But it didn’t matter. In the end, nothing mattered. Her words would change nothing.  
Instead, she sent back one word: _Yes._  
The response came fast, phone vibrating against her hand: _Good._  
And that was that. Her marriage, terminated. House, gone.  
Time for a new start.  


*

She had been warned it would be derelict, it had been abandoned for almost a decade, but Isla had never thought it would be such a jungle. Nature appeared to have claimed her grandfather's farm with vigor.  
“It's not as bad as it looks.”  


She turned her attention to the elderly gentleman beside her. She hadn't really expected a personal welcome, but Mayor Lewis had been her grandfather's friend. Well dressed in corduroy and suspenders, a flat cap perched upon his head, he looked precisely like he had just stepped from the pages of English Country Life – the only thing missing was a border collie at his side. Lord of the manor indeed. She was willing to bet that his “manor” wasn't an overgrown mess of weed and rock.  
Isla rose an eyebrow. “It isn't?” The rough wooden walls of the cottage were barely visible beneath a duvet of wisteria.  


“Come on, I'll show you.”  


Isla followed him up creaking stairs and stood patiently while he fumbled with the key. She cast her gaze over the farm – her farm now – and allowed herself a small sigh. What a damn mess. Still, at least here the people didn't know her, didn't know her past. Wouldn't look at her with sympathy and make petty small talk, afraid they might invoke the forbidden topic.  


The door swung open with the faintest squeak, revealing a relatively tidy interior, illuminated by a fire dancing in the grate.  


“Takes the edge of the cold,” he explained. “We might be headed into spring, but it can get a tad chilly in the mornings. A couple of the local ladies have tidied it up a bit, put on fresh sheets, that kind of thing. You can thank Miss Marnie for that. Anyhow, I’m sure it has been a long day – it’s a long trip from the city. So, I'll leave you to get settled in. If you need anything, just follow the path past your gate, but remember, country rules here – so everything closes early, except the saloon.”  


“Thank you,” she replied, and he took that as closure, gave her a slight nod of farewell, and departed. She waited, listening until the sound of his boots crunching along the stone-strewn path faded, then shut the door with a click.  


Isla blinked away unexpected tears, taking in the interior of the cottage, the sweet scent of lavender bringing back childhood memories. She had been here before, of course, spent holidays, and numerous Christmas's, with her grandfather. She had hunted for tadpoles in the farm pools, teased the goats, ridden the donkeys. How had it gotten into this, ramshackle state? Best not to think too hard about it – her grandfather’s final years, alone, before age and infirmity had led him to the hospice. She blinked unbidden dampness from her eyes. Damn those allergies. Must be all the dust in here.  


Her possessions, such as they were, had been neatly stacked against one wall, cardboard boxes sagging a little beneath the weight. A crocheted quilt lay, neatly folded across the wide single bed, and a sprig of lavender placed in a vase on the table beside it. She flicked the light switch and released a relieved sigh when the tasseled standing lamp illuminated. Rustic definitely, but thank Yoba for some modern conveniences. Speaking of conveniences... her stomach rumbled, reminding her that lunch had been a sad plastic-wrapped egg sandwich from a small town dairy, many hours ago. A glance in the fridge revealed a selection of casserole dishes. Handwritten post-it notes affixed to them identified the contents, and how to reheat them. There were even more in the freezer – were they trying to make a hermit of her? And were these all from the mysterious Miss Marnie? Isla would have to find her and thank her. It took a bit of fiddling to get the gas stove to light, but soon the casserole was in, adding the delicious aroma of beans, tomatoes and spices to the air. Tomorrow, she would have to make a start on cutting back the wilderness, maybe look into putting in a raised garden bed or two, but tonight, well, tonight she could drift off with only the distant croaking of frogs and hum of insects to shepherd her into sleep.  


*

A rooster’s crowing cut through the haze of sleep.  
Where was she? Why was it so quiet? Yoba, was she late for work? Or was he still here? Her ears pricked, listening for footsteps, the sound of the shower, and then the rooster’s crow brought reality flooding back in. She was no longer in the city. No longer needed to put on the hideous Joja corporate uniform and plaster a false smile on her face. No longer sharing a house with a husband (soon to be ex-) that could no longer bear to look at her. Alone, but better for it. Or, at least that’s what she told herself.  


The Mayor had been right. It was chilly in the morning. The fire had died during the night – she hadn’t banked it, knew nothing about how to care for an open grate fire – but sunlight, weak, early morning sunlight, streamed lethargically through the crack in the paisley curtains. Ugh, paisley. Her grandfather had not had good taste. She eased herself out of the bed, feeling a stiffness in her back. She would have to get a better bed. A bigger one too. Not that she would be sharing it with anyone ever again, but still... She wrapped her favorite dressing gown – a thick, canary yellow, flannel hug – around herself and padded, barefoot, into the kitchen. Leftover bean casserole for breakfast? No, she couldn’t stomach that right now. A coffee would have to suffice. The tap spluttered, pulsing out a horrid rust-red liquid for a few terrible moments, then with a ‘wooosh’ ran swift and clear. She set a pot on the stove to boil, fumbling through her boxes until she found the instant coffee and her favorite – slightly chipped – mug.  
She stood on the porch, sipping the rank, sugary brew. Milk, she needed to buy milk. And proper coffee. The early morning light did little to improve the overgrown state of the place. Trees clustered in clumps, the ground scattered with logs and rocks, between them a tangled mass of weeds and knee high grass. What was that, beyond that cluster of trees, some sort of building? Her grandfather had definitely had a barn. Which would probably, now, be overrun with rats and other vermin. Well, might as well start there. She took a step, kicked something. A small box, a note bound to it with a bright red ribbon.  


A present, for her?  


Not quite. The note merely said, “Some seeds, to get you started.” Within, Isla found several packets of parsnip seeds and the information that they would grow within twelve days. Twelve days? That seemed surprisingly quick, but perhaps they were genetically modified. The one time she’d tried gardening at home nothing had sprouted except a rather dubious looking white fungus and a few weedy leeks. They’d mostly tasted like dirt, with a hint of grit.  


Still, what else did she have to do? No work, no commitments. Of course, she could explore the village, maybe introduce herself to the locals, but the thought of that awoke the butterflies in her throat, whilst simultaneously dropping a lead weight on her chest. No, she wasn’t up to meeting new people, not yet. After some hunting, she located some tools in a lean-to attached to the house, and found amongst her grandfather’s bookshelf (which mostly contained Reader’s Digested condensed books and a game of scrabble missing all the vowels) a hefty tome on gardening. The watering can was old, and dribbled water all over her hands, so she set up her small, rudimentary garden near the pond.

*

Hours later, and Isla leaned against the porch. She wiped the dirt from her gloved hands, before wiping the sweat from her face. Gardening was surprisingly hard work, and parts of her were busy reminding her that perhaps she should’ve lived a slightly less sedentary existence. A different kind of pain from that she inflicted upon herself, but it seemed to numb her nerves with the same sense of calm. What time was it? A glance at her phone revealed well after lunch – and with that, her belly reminded her with a rolling rumble. Lunch, then perhaps she could explore her farm further. It would take forever for her lunch – something encased in pastry – to heat up, so she began flicking through the channels on the television. There seemed to be only two: one channel playing endless info-commercials, and the other a cooking show. She was partway through watching the rather comely chef cutting up raw fish to make sushi, when a knock at the door made her jump.  


“Lewis?” she wondered aloud. Her legs groaned in protest when she stood to answer it and found, not the well-dressed mayor, but a red-haired woman.  


“Hello,” she said. “You must be Isla. I’m Robin.” She held out her hand for Isla to shake. Her grip was firm, palm rough. “I’m the local carpenter.” She gave a slightly sad smile. “Sorry I wasn’t part of the welcoming committee. I was supposed to meet you yesterday but, well, something came up.” Her gaze drew away from Isla and drifted around the room, appraising the woodwork, no doubt. “She’s got a solid frame on her,” she continued, “but your grandfather – may he rest in peace – lived a fairly spartan life. If you need to upgrade, let me know.” She stepped forward, into the room, and Isla took a step back, unsure of how she felt about this invasion of her new sanctuary. If Robin noticed her reluctance, however, she didn’t let it show. Instead she stalked around the room, eyeing the corners. “Yes,” she said after a moment’s pause, “I could certainly extend your kitchen – maybe put in a larger window – let in the morning light. If I remember rightly, this place was quite dreary in winter, and you never know, one day you might want to start a family here.”  


“No,” Isla replied quickly, biting back the stab of pain. “It’s fine, thanks. I like it the way it is. Homey, and all that.”  


Robin nodded, the flicker of minor disappointment gone in a heartbeat. “Of course,” she said. “Well, I can help with the outbuildings too. If I recall correctly, there was a coop and a barn.”  


“That would be great,” Isla replied, not wanting to upset the visitor, but also wanting her gone. She had lived four years in the city without sharing more than a nod with her neighbors. Conversation with strangers was draining, especially one as forward as this red-haired carpenter.  


To her credit, Robin seemed to sense Isla’s discomfit. “Well, best be on my way then,” she said. “If you need help with anything woodwork wise – or just want some company, as I imagine it must be quite lonely here – follow the path up behind the house. It’s a bit of a steep climb, but follow it around, and it’ll bring you straight to my house. I can see myself out,” she concluded. “Enjoy your lunch.”  


As if on cue, Isla’s phone timer trilled, telling her it was time to check on the pie.


	2. Meeting the Neighbours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel I should note here, I couldn't get my head around each season only lasting 28 days and some vegetables basically growing in 4 days, so I've transposed game time into real time, and set the story in 2019. Each season is now 3 months long, and thus almost the entire story takes place in spring.

Isla spent the next week tending her garden and clearing – and exploring – her farm. Her farm – what a strange thought! After some extensive scything, she located what remained of the barn, a tree had fallen on it, partly collapsing the roof. The trunk of the tree was blackened and stank of charcoal – lightning strike, perhaps? The coop was in slightly better condition, although the floor was littered with cigarettes and broken bottles. “Must be party central,” she groaned. It looked like she would have some work for Robin after all. There was also the skeletal remains of another building. From scattered chunks of broken glass, well embedded in the dirt, it must’ve been a glasshouse. But what the hell had happened to it? Lightning strike? Neglect? Just standing in the shattered remains sent shivers down her spine. Perhaps it was haunted? In the cliff face behind it, she found a cave, and that really unnerved her. It wasn’t the size – Isla wasn’t prone to claustrophobia – but as soon as she stepped into the gloom, she felt as though her bones had turned to ice; there was a faint, slightly sulfuric aroma, yet it wasn’t just chilly – it was practically arctic. She backed out in to the warm afternoon light, and determined to board up the entrance as soon as she could.

Word must’ve got around that Isla needed her privacy, because she had no more unexpected visitors. Sometimes, during the first week, when she was working in her garden or clearing out the wilderness, she imagined she could sense someone else there, although she saw no-one, nothing except for a few squirrels and the occasional rabbit – even a couple of toads, lurking in the thicker weeds. 

On the tenth day, while working later in the evening, just as the sun cast a pale pink glaze across the landscape, Isla caught sight of a figure in the distance. Stocky, possibly a child, they stood just beyond the border of the fence. She rose her hand in a wave. But they didn’t return the gesture, just seemed to stare at her – although she couldn’t see the face, couldn’t even tell if they were male or female. She turned the wave, rather awkwardly, into sweeping back her hair. Probably just a curious neighbor. Nothing sinister, nothing unusual. Still, she stepped away as casually as she could, slunk into her house and locked the door, before wrapping her thick robe around her. It took three episodes of Queen of Sauce before her pulse finally stopped racing, but she couldn’t recall, afterwards, a single recipe. 

The parsnip seeds grew, and Isla marveled as the tiny stems that poked through the earth, leaves unfurling at a rate that bordered on unnatural. She could’ve sworn that she could almost see them growing. Indeed, after the promised twelve days, the broad white top of the root started to rise above the dirt. What kind of sorcery was this? Didn’t parsnips usually take months?

She dug one out with fingers and trowel, gently – as the handbook advised her (the same handbook, she noted, that also said they would not be ready to harvest until mid-summer) – taking care not to damage it. It was as long as her forearm and as thick as her wrist. She laid it carefully on a piece of sackcloth in a shady patch on her porch, and dug up the next one. This one was longer, but more spindly. In the end, she laid two dozen roots across her porch. Now what to do with them? Isla didn’t even like parsnips that much. 

She groaned. Well, she could sell them, but it was probably time to meet the neighbors. She had, after all, put it off long enough.

*

Robin had been right about the hill – it was steep. When Isla reached the top, she was positively panting and her legs reminded her just how much they had been put through. It was lightly forested; squirrels scampered through the trees and birds singing as they fluttered through the foliage. She reached the crest and paused to catch her breath, leaning against a tree. Most of the view was hidden, but she caught glimpses of her farm through the foliage. A berry bush caught her gaze, bearing vibrant pink fruit. They looked a little like strawberries, but slightly larger. She plucked a couple and rested them on her palm. Were they edible? Probably best to ask a local. Something rustled, and a rather scruffy man suddenly stepped from the bushes in front of her. Both of them jumped, and the berries fell from Isla’s hands. She stood upright, trying to make her height of five foot five appear more threatening. He, on the other hand, leaped back behind a tree trunk, regarding her with slightly frightened eyes.

“Don’t hurt me,” he said. 

Isla blinked in surprise. “I wouldn’t!” she replied, feeling a bit offended that he might consider she would, even though, seconds before, she’d been regretting that she hadn’t brought her scythe with her. His coat looked to have been pieced together from various scraps of cloth, and wild white hair hung down to his shoulders. It looked like even Pelican Town had its own resident itinerant. “I’m Isla,” she replied. She set her backpack on the ground and saw fear flick across his eyes. “I’m not going to hurt you,” she repeated. “Look.” She lifted out one of the wrapped bundles and presented it to him, on open palms, as though trying to tame a wild animal. “I’m the new farmer.”

He stepped forward, looking ready to bolt – what had happened to make him this way? – and took the proffered package. “Thank you,” he said, unwrapping it and smiling at the pale white vegetable. “This is a very kind gift.” He thrust his hand at her, and Isla took it, trying not to wince, although it was not as dirty as she expected. His nails were clean, and relatively short. “They call me Linus,” he said. He was better spoken than she had expected too and she mentally kicked herself for her preconceptions. “This is my home.” His handshake was fleeting, and he quickly withdrew his hand. 

Isla glanced around, but couldn’t see any sort of house. Her confusion must have shown, because he rewarded her with a shy smile. 

“The forest,” he said, “is my home.”

Isla didn’t know quite how to respond to that. “That must be cold,” she sputtered out.

“I have a tent, but yes, it does get a bit chilly, especially in winter.” He glanced down at the parsnip again. “Thank you again for the generous gift, Miss Isla.” And with a quick bow, he ducked back into the bushes and vanished.

Isla stared after him for a minute or three. What a strange fellow, she thought. Then again, maybe that’s what came from living in a small country town. Her grandfather had certainly had his fair share of quirks.

*

Robin’s house was a beautiful two-story wooden house with a bright blue tiled roof. The windowsills were all hand-carved, with an elaborate trailing vine motif. Isla found herself hesitating outside, admiring the woodwork. Perhaps she should hire Robin to upgrade her house. Although how could she afford it? Maybe when the divorce settlement came through.

The divorce settlement... A heavy hand closed around her chest. She hadn’t thought about the divorce, the sale of her house, for the better part of the last fortnight. She’d been too busy, too exhausted, or too unnerved, to focus on anything but the present. But now, with one passing thought, it all came rushing back. Her lungs seemed to deflate, and she sagged, gasping, trying not to collapse on Robin’s doorstep.

Pull yourself together, she scolded herself. Gripped her left wrist with her hand, and drove her finger nails against her inner wrist. The pain – as minor as it was – helped her back to herself.

“This is your new life, Isla,” she said it aloud, as though hearing it would make it more real. “You’re a farmer now.”

The door opened, and she straightened, as a young man came out. Shoulder-length black hair, black clothes, pale skin. He stared at her for a moment longer than was really comfortable, his eyes narrowed in what looked suspiciously like an accusatory glare, then he stalked off down the path without a word. Had he heard her? Who was he? Isla shook her head. It didn’t matter – just some emo kid – probably one of the punks who had trashed her coop. He certainly didn’t deserve one of her parsnips.

She squared her shoulder and knocked on the door.

“Come in,” Robin called out, and Isla entered a room with a high-ceiling. Robin sat at a desk opposite the door, a pile of papers before her, pencils strewn across the surface. “Why, hello Isla, I’m pleased to see you again.” She stood up, and began to walk around the desk. Isla had the terrible thought that it might be to hug her – even though she barely knew her! – and took a step back, but Robin stopped a comfortable distance away. “How’s the farm treating you?” she asked.

“Pretty well,” Isla replied, feeling slightly more at ease now that she had a topic she could comfortably discuss. “I’ve got parsnips – they grew amazingly fast!” She took off her backpack and handed one of the wrapped bundles to Robin. 

Robin took it, unwrapped it, and rewarded her with appropriate levels of praise. “This is really nice! You must have a green finger.”

Isla scratched her head and let her gaze stroll around the room. Praise had never rested comfortably on her shoulders. “I think there must be something special about the soil,” she replied. “Usually... well, before I came here, I couldn’t even keep a cactus alive.” “There’s definitely something special about Stardew Valley.” A gentle, deep voice came from the other room, and a tall, dark-skinned man strolled into the room. He greeted Isla with a warm smile. “The name’s Demetrius,” he said. “Robin’s husband. I’m studying the qualities of the soil here, trying to work out why it’s so fecund.” He shrugged, brow furrowing in a frown. “It’s actually rather unusual that no-one else is farming around here – aside from the occasional backyard vegetable garden – but it seems your grandfather’s land was the richest in the region and, well, after he left, no-one else could quite tame it the way he could.” Before Isla could ponder that, Demetrius’s gaze alighted on her parsnip and his face cracked into a broad grin. “That is one mighty fine parsnip,” he declared.

It was one of her best, Isla had thought, singling it out specifically for the carpenter. Plump from crown to tail. She could not disguise her blush of pleasure. “Thank you.” And then, before her brain could caution her against it, she added, “If you wanted, you could come visit me on the farm sometime, take some soil samples or whatever.” She tried to make it sound casual, but wondered if Robin and Demetrius could hear what an effort it was for her, and how that, already, despite little in the way of evidence, she was trusting them and inviting them into her home, her life. 

“I would like that very much,” Demetrius replied. And his tone indicated that he had, indeed, understood.

“And Robin,” she added. “I’d love it if you could have a look at the coop, maybe, and help me with getting it set up. It’s a little lonely on the farm, I think a couple of chickens might be good company.”

Robin rewarded her with a sunny smile. “I’ve got another project I’d better finish first,” she said, “but I could drop by, early next week, perhaps?”

“That would be great,” Isla replied. “Um, any idea where I could get more seeds? Parsnips are great, but I’d like to try something else.”

“Strawberries,” Demetrius replied. “You should most definitely grow strawberries. Pierre has a batch of seeds due in a couple of weeks – he generally sells them at the egg festival. He sells other seeds too – have you been to visit his store yet? It’s that or the Joja mart.”

“Joja mart?” Isla shuddered. What the hell was a Joja mart doing in a place like Stardew Valley? Her distaste must’ve been plain on her face, because Robin laughed.

“If you join their loyalty program they give you good discounts,” she said, “but it feels a little like selling your soul to the Void.”

Isla definitely agreed with that. “How do I get to Pierre’s?” she asked.

Robin rewarded her with a smile. “I’ll sketch you a map of the town.”


	3. The Rat Problem

The dirt road wound down through a few forested paddocks, and into a large park like area, dotted with oak trees and bushes. Dandelions and daffodils poked their heads from the long grass, and Isla stopped to pick a couple, tucking them carefully into her backpack. They would certainly brighten up her cottage a little bit. She paused in front of a derelict building. The shuttered windows hung from their hooks, and the glass was splintered and cracked. Creeping ivy had covered most of the woodwork, but she could just make out the words “Pelican Town” in chipped and faded paint above one window. The clock had stopped at 12:26. She knew this place – a dim memory of papier mâché and paint, and other childhood crafts. Her grandfather had brought her here on rainy days in the holidays. There had been other children too, their faces just vague blurs in her memory. Well, it had been over a decade.

“That’s the old community center.” The voice came from behind her, and she whirled, coming face to face with a pale young woman. “Some say it’s haunted,” she added, twirling a curl of her deep purple hair around her finger. “Do you believe in ghosts?” she cast a quick glance at the broken shutters and shivered, in fear or anticipation, Isla couldn’t tell.

“Not especially,” Isla replied. “I’ve found there’s enough in reality to haunt you.”

“Ooh, that’s pretty deep,” the woman replied. “I’m Abigail. And you must be the new farmer.” She offered Isla a quick smile. 

“Isla,” she replied, distractedly. Had something moved beyond the broken window? Probably rats. A place like this was bound to be infested. “What happened to it?” she asked. It seemed strange that some place that was clearly at the heart of the community had fallen into such disrepair.

“There was a terrific storm,” Abigail replied. “Almost ten years ago. On the day of my fifteenth birthday, no less! Best. Present. Ever!” Her grin was wicked, eyes gleaming. “It was magnificent! Thunder, lightning, howling wind, hail – and rain so heavy that the river flooded, and the quarry bridge washed away. Mother said it felt like Yoba and the Void were at war. Father, of course, told her to stop being ridiculous and that it was just a violent but perfectly natural phenomenon. The wind roared so much, it almost ripped the roof off. Then, BOOM, power went out, and we huddled around the shrine, with mum praying, even though we’re not really religious. The next day, the community center was in ruins, half the town was flooded, one of the ranch kids had drowned, and old Mister Roland had vanished.”

“A kid had drowned,” Isla repeated. “And Mister Roland had vanished?”

“Yeh. Dad never let me play with the ranch kids. Worried they’d lead me astray or something.” She shrugged. “So, of course, I befriended one of them – and I knew him too. His name was Jasper.”

Isla wasn’t particularly interested in some long-dead teenager – certainly, it was tragic, but – “ Mister Roland was my grandfather.”

“Oh yes, of course!” Abigail clapped her hands in glee. “Anyway, he wasn’t lost for long, of course. My Uncle Marlon found him in the mines with a shattered hip and half-delirious with pain. He went even madder after that.” She flushed, realizing what she’d just said. “Sorry, but, well, it’s true.”

“He always told the best stories,” Isla mused. “I loved to visit him when I was younger, and hear tales about the goblins, dwarves, and forest spirits – and the monsters of the Void. He really seemed to believe they were real.”

“But they are real!” Abigail exclaimed. “Or at least, I’m pretty sure they were. Ages ago, monsters roamed the valley, but there were heroes here, in Pelican Town, and over the hill in Grampleton. There were tales of the Defender of the Valley – and I’ve even heard rumours that there were wizards!” She paused for a moment and scratched her head. “Do you think Mister Roland was a wizard? He used to say some weird things. And he had a cat! Wizards have cats, right? Or is that witches?” 

“Witches, I think,” Isla replied. Really? Still believing in monsters and wizards? At her age? “And I very much doubt it. He was just an old man, a sick man. He died a year ago. Peacefully, in his sleep.” But that was what they always said, wasn’t it? Not, pissed himself and died screaming, although the dementia had given him terrible nightmares. It had been an open casket funeral, and the undertaker had done a wonderful job, but his expression had not been one of restful peace.

Abigail bowed her head, and closed her eyes for a long moment. “What do you think happens after we die?” she asked.

It took Isla a few seconds to pull herself back from the memory of her grandfather, the last time she had seen him alive, a pale shell of a once vibrant man. Skin so taut over his bones that he looked like little more than a skeleton, hair so pale and thin it was almost translucent. He’d barely been able to form a coherent sentence at that point, had just rambled about shadows and golems and – for some reason – Joja mart. “Nothing,” she replied, eventually, “I reckon we just cease to exist.”

“That wouldn’t be so bad,” Abigail said. “But do you know what I think?”

“We come back as spooky ghosts?” Isla guessed, her thoughts still on her grandfather. She’d been so haunted by her own shadows at that point; she’d left in distress – and he’d died three months later.

“Precisely.” Abigail’s mouth curled into a mischievous grin. “Wanna go inside? See if we can find any ghosts?”

“Did someone actually die in there?”

A shrug answered her. “The building’s like one hundred years old – someone’s bound to. You on?”

“Sure. Why not?” Anything to drag her out of the abyss she was about to sink into. “But how?”

Abigail rewarded her with a sly grin and tapped the side of her nose. “Follow me.”

The back of the Community center was in a better state of repair than the front, but more heavily entangled in weeds. Creeping, snagging vines that snared at Isla’s clothes and tangled themselves around her ankles. She stumbled, threw her hands out to catch herself, and crashed to the ground.

“Are you alright?” Abigail helped her to her feet. “You’re bleeding!”

“Yes, I think so.” Isla replied. Then added, “Oh.” Blood that trickled down her palm, between her fingers. “I must’ve cut myself on something.” 

“Do we need to get you to the medical center?” Abigail asked. “It’s Saturday, so it’s closed, but Harvey will be in – he literally lives there!” She winked at Isla. “He’s geeky, and a bit old, but kinda cute, if you like caterpillar mustaches.”

“Caterpillar mustaches.” Isla cringed a little at the thought. She wiped her hand on her sleeve. “It’s okay, just a graze.” She knelt down to inspect what she’d cut herself on. It was rock, but it felt like it had been shaped into a point by hands, rather than nature. She tried to dig it out, but whatever it was, it wasn’t revealing itself.

“Be careful,” Abigail cautioned. “If you get dirt in the cut you might get an infection – and then they might have to amputate. Actually, that could be kinda neat, you could get like a bionic finger or something.”

And she’d thought Mister Roland was weird. Well, whatever it was didn’t matter, she could always come back, bring one of her tools. Isla stood, wiped dirt – and more blood – onto her trousers, and followed Abigail towards a large window. The glass had shattered from it entirely. It wasn’t difficult to duck her head and climb in after Abigail. “Do you come in here often?” she asked.

Abigail drew a Swiss-knife from her pocket, and flicked out a flash-light attachment. “I used to,” she said. “All the time. Then Dad caught me in here. I was grounded for a week. He said it was dangerous. Dunno why though, it’s just a sad, forgotten building.” Pale yellow light illuminated the room. What remained of an aquarium sat to one left, and to her right, a stone fireplace. Isla followed Abigail across warped and twisted floorboards, taking care not twist her ankle on the gaping holes, through which resourceful weeds poked their heads.

“Hard to believe this was once the heart of the community, isn’t it?” Abigail said suddenly. Her voice seemed strangely alien in the gloom, and made Isla suddenly aware that she had allowed a complete stranger to guide her into a place so isolated and abandoned that no-one would hear her scream. Sure, she seemed nice... but first impressions could be deceiving. Stop being paranoid, she scolded herself. It seemed quite unlikely that this girl was some sort of back-country murderer.

A rustling sound in one corner sent a jolt through Isla’s spine and she jumped. “What was that?”

The torchlight swung around, illuminating a small play-hut – like a tiny tipi – woven together from branches and grass. Isla caught a quick glimpse of something small, green and – apple-like? No. Ridiculous. It must be her imagination. A couple of the branches twitched, however, as though something had recently jumped through them. “Vincent? Jasmine?” Abigail called. There seemed a slight edge to her voice. “You shouldn’t be playing in here – it’s dangerous.”

A faint chirping answered and Abigail appeared to relax. “Rats,” she said. “Just rats.”

That hadn’t sounded like rats, more like birds, but what sort of birds lived in dark abandoned buildings? Still, probably just swallows or something. Isla wasn’t about to argue. Rats or birds both seemed a better alternative to ‘strange little monsters’. “Who are Vincent and Jasmine?” she asked. Maybe they were they the punks who had trashed her coop.

“Couple of local kids,” Abigail replied. “Vincent’s seven or so; he’s Sam’s little brother. Jasmine’s a bit older – eight – and she’s a bit shy and doesn’t really talk to anyone. She lives on the ranch, with Marnie and her uncle. Vinny's been pretty quiet since his dad went on his tour of duty to Gotoro.” 

“The war?” It had been all over the news, back in Zuzu. Isla hadn’t known anyone who fought in it, and it felt such a long way away, in the Gotoro Empire, so she’d barely paid it any heed.

“Yeh.” She fell silent, and Isla started prodding around on the floor. 

“What’s this?” she asked, when her toe nudged something.

“What’s what?” Abigail joined her. “Some sort of plaque?”

The light danced over the flattened piece of golden metal, illuminating an array of odd symbols. “It’s all jibberish,” Isla said.

“Arcane symbols,” Abigail replied, her grinned looked spectral in the torchlight. “Hey, do you think someone’s trying to summon the Void?” 

Was it Isla’s imagination, or did the temperature just drop about five degrees? And was the rustling shuffling – that was almost certainly, without any shade of a doubt, rats – stop, as though something – or someone – was listening? “I think we should go.” Abigail didn’t argue, following as Isla picked her way back to the window, and out, into the welcome afternoon sunlight.


	4. Welcome to Pierre's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's awkward being the new face in a town where everyone knows everyone, and has probably been gossiping about you for the better part of the last fortnight.   
> Poor Isla has social anxiety - thankfully she also has parsnips.  
> And as we all know, the people of Pelican Town love their gifts!

“Hello, welcome to Pierre’s!”

Isla froze, not especially keen on the greeting, and even less keen on the three pairs of eyes that turned to study her. She could almost read their thoughts, see the curiosity flicker through their eyes. Appraising her. She resisted the urge to look away, to shuffle to the counter, and kept her chin high, her steps bold. Aside from the ginger-haired, bespectacled shopkeeper, there were four customers in the store. An older woman, her graying hair tidied back in a bun, who regarded Isla with gentle curiosity; another woman, maybe in her mid-forties, with bright green hair, paused in her conversation with a blonde woman of approximately the same age, and both stared at her. The fourth was a tall, dark-haired man wearing a scruffy blue jacket, despite the relatively warm day. He merely cast her a cursory glance, then turned his attention back towards the cold cabinet in the corner. 

“Hi,” she said, reaching the counter, and putting on a bright – albeit very false – smile. “I’d like to buy some seeds, please.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place!” Pierre – or at least, she assumed that was his name – declared. He swept his fringe out of his eyes and gestured at the rack of seeds along the wall. “Finest quality seeds in Stardew Valley.” 

Isla was sceptical, but then again, the parsnip seeds had grown in record time. What to buy now? She studied the packets, ears pricked to the conversation that had resumed behind her.

“She’s younger than I expected. Roland’s grand-daughter. Hmm.”

“Must be lonely, on the farm by herself... but I suppose, after the city, the peace and quiet must be quite a change.” A deep sigh. “I could do with a bit of peace and quiet myself. Sam, well, with Kent away, he’s turned into a bit of a rebel. Staying up all night, playing his guitar at all hours... and don’t get me started on his pranks... The luau was just the beginning!” 

Isla held back a laugh. That was this town’s idea of a rebellious lifestyle? Still, at least the conversation now turned from her and onto Sam – who must be one of the local teenagers – and his various hi-jinks. She selected a variety of the packets, totaling up the cash in her head. Yes, she had enough cash to buy these, but she’d have to find a way to make some more. Perhaps there was some place she could sell her products? She set the packets on the counter.

Pierre gave her a charming smile. “You must be Miss Isla,” he said. “How’s the old farm shaping up?”

“Getting there,” she replied. “I’d like to buy these, please.” Isla had made enough small-talk for today, she really wanted to get back to the privacy of her farm, sink her hands back into the earth she was becoming very familiar with.

“You won’t regret it,” Pierre replied, scanning the items through. “And, I’ll also buy produce off you at a good price. It’s been too long since we’ve had a working farm – a little agriculture could really inject new life into the economy!”

What economy? Isla wondered. The town was tiny, there were maybe thirty people living here, if Robin’s map had been an accurate representation (she’d printed tiny names on all the houses). Still, that put very little pressure on Isla. “Thank you,” she replied, then, remembering, “Oh, I have some parsnips.”

Distaste flickered, very briefly, across Pierre’s face – Not a fan of parsnips then? – but was quickly replaced with one of neutral interest. Isla drew out several of the wrapped bundles, aware that the two women seemed to be inching closer to her, trying to peer over her shoulder. 

He examined them thoroughly, then weighed them, before giving Isla a curt nod. “Four pounds, not bad quality,” he said. “I’ll pay you 200g for them, or you could swap them for 250g worth of seeds.”

Isla had no idea if that was a good deal or not, but that would buy a whole lot more seeds. She chose the latter, and took it all in parsnip seeds.

The two woman ambushed her by the door.

“I’ve got a great recipe for parsnip soup,” the green-haired one declared. “Come visit sometime, and I’ll write it out for you.” 

“Um, okay, thanks,” Isla replied, hugging her backpack to her chest.

The blond woman, not wanting to be outdone, moved to stand beside her friend. “And if you ever feel lonely, on that big empty farm of yours, and in need of a warm home-cooked dinner, drop by 1 Willow Lane. That’s the bright blue house by the river.”

Isla inched around them, trying to make for the door. “Thank you,” she muttered, starting to feel a little too overwhelmed. There were still a couple of parsnip bundles in her bag, and she took one out, almost shoving it into the blond woman’s hands. “Here,” she said. “And one for you too.” To the green-haired woman. “You can make that soup!”

“Oh, I’d love to,” she said, “but Pierre’s not a fan.” She grinned over Isla’s shoulder at the shopkeeper and Isla glanced with her. Pierre was staring at them over his glasses, brow furrowed. Probably annoyed I made him pay for his, she thought. But that’s business, right? And he did offer. She flashed him a grin. Besides, if she was going to go around giving people gifts, it would be better to give them something they actually liked, right?

Time to make her escape except – dammit! – the dark-haired man was in her way, crate of beer balanced awkwardly against his chest as he tried to maneuver the door open. 

“I’ll get it.” Isla pushed past him and pulled it open, gesturing him through. 

He rewarded her with a lopsided smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Um, thanks.”

What the hell, she had one left, and he was kinda cute, in an unshaven, mussed kind of way. Besides, how long would they keep for? “Do you want a parsnip?” she asked.

He shrugged, looking slightly confused. “Okay.”

She balanced the last one on the crate of beer, shouldered the backpack into place, and strode off down the path, back towards her cottage, not wanting to risk a glance behind her, and the curious gaze she knew must be following. 

*

Shane stared down at the wrapped bundle in bewilderment, then looked up to watch her go. Who was she? The new farmer, obviously; he’d heard them gossiping about her in the saloon. What was her name? Eileen or something? It wasn’t like they’d actually talked to him. No-one talked to him, if he could at all avoid it – no-one but Emily, and trying to stop her was like trying to stop a hurricane with a blanket. A recluse, they’d said. Keeps to herself. Probably a bit strange, like her grandfather. They hadn’t said that she was young, or quite pretty, if you liked the scruffy, country-girl look (not that Shane was even sure what he liked, anymore). Then again, as far as he could tell, before today, only the Mayor and Robin had actually met her. So what had brought her out of her shell now? Parsnips? Marnie would appreciate it. He knew he didn’t do enough around the house for her, certainly wasn’t the lodger she deserved. Hell, he was a disappointment to all who met him. The only thing he was good at was lugging heavy items.

Like crates of beer. Or boxes from the storeroom at the Joja mart. No, he didn’t want to think about work right now. Better to focus on the woman walking swiftly from the plaza, her dark hair tied back in a messy ponytail. 


	5. Monsters in the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the point in the story when I realized Isla's farm was the wilderness map.

Isla sank onto her porch in exhaustion. How could tilling and planting seeds be so damned exhausting? But it was a different kind of exhaustion, the best kind: physical. A great release from the amount of emotional build-up she’d endured. Too many people, too much conversation, and all those new faces, it had been such a relief to sink her fingers back into the soil and plant out the neat rows of her new seeds. Such a collection: beans and cauliflower, so many parsnips (the seeds were cheap!), plus potatoes (you couldn’t beat the humble spud!) and she’d even planted a few kale seeds. Kale was one of those so-called “superfoods” wasn’t it? Surely there’d be someone here new agey enough to appreciate them. She’d finished her garden plot off with a border of flower seeds. Tulips, which would look mighty pretty, and something called a blue jazz, a plant she wasn’t familiar with, but apparently it attracted butterflies. And butterflies were pollinators, right? So the more of them, the better. With any luck, the parsnips would be ready by the egg festival, and she would be able to afford some of those strawberry seeds that Demetrius had suggested. Once she had strawberries, she should really figure out how to make preserves. Maybe there was something in one of those books?   
She stood and stretched her aching muscles. Long shadows spread out across the wilderness that still made up more than half her farm. Creatures rustled in the bushes. Nocturnal beasties out for their nightly rambles? In the distance, an owl called mournfully. Time to go inside, sit in front of the fire, and maybe do some reading. She also needed to write in her journal. It was something the psychiatrist had recommended, back when she’d thought her marriage could still be saved. Recording her thoughts, her feelings, her hopes and dreams. The habit had stuck, and tonight she had more to write about than just the chilling darkness of the farm cave, or how tall her parsnip shoots had grown.

She noted the names of the villagers she knew by name: Linus, Robin, Demetrius, Abigail, Pierre, then referred to Robin’s map to try and infer the identities of the others. The blond-haired woman must be Jodi based on her address, and the other was likely Caroline – unless Pierre outsourced his cooking. The emo-kid – well, he wasn’t really a kid, she supposed, he was probably around her age – could well be Sebastian, given that he’d come from Robin’s house. A suitable name, for a wanna-be goth. There were too many other male names to identify the other man, the older one, but he probably wasn’t Harvey (no mustache), or Sam (because, from Jodi’s description, Sam sounded like a kid). Maybe if she saw him again, she could ask him. It wouldn’t surprise her if everyone here knew her name, it only seemed fair to put herself on even footing. 

She heard a strange rattling outside, like someone was shaking a canister of bones – gloomy thought, where had that come from? – and felt fear jolt through her. Her fingers closed about the nearest potential-weapon to hand – the fire iron. Again, her isolation felt a threat. She moved to the window, stepping as quietly as possible – not easy given the multitude of creaky floorboards, she really should tighten some of those – and risked a peek through the gap in curtains.

A beady black eye stared in at her. No, not an eye, it looked more like a coal, poked into a ball of weed. Some sort of prank? Had someone – maybe Sam, since he seemed to be the resident prankster – stuck a scarecrow on her porch? But why now?

Then it moved.

Isla was a little ashamed at her squeak of surprise – and let’s face it, a little fear – but luckily there was no-one here to hear it. She shrieked again, louder this time, as the thing, whatever it was, scratched at her window. 

Could it get in? It didn’t seem very strong, but... THUD... something, possibly a shower of small pebbles, bounced off the glass. Isla drew out her phone – but who was she going to call? She didn’t have anyone’s number except the ex and she sure as hell wasn’t going to call him. Besides, the phone was dead. 

Another thud, and a scraping noise like nails on a chalkboard. 

Fuck it. She’d had enough of this cowering beneath blankets bullshit. An animated scarecrow doll wasn’t going to scare her. 

Brandishing the fire iron like a sword, she shouldered open the door.

The monster was bipedal and stood no higher than her waist. It moved towards her in weird, jerky movements, like some sort of animated puppet. She swung at it, the fire iron glancing across its shoulder, catching the side of its head. It staggered, flailed, grazed her with its long fingers. No, not fingers, claws. She felt them snagging, through the cloth. She swung again, knocking the head clean from the shoulders, and it collapsed into a pile of fiber and coal.

“Holy mother of Yoba,” she whispered. Abigail was right, and her grandfather’s tales had been true. But if this were the puppet, who was the puppeteer? Something glinted among the weeds, and she crouched down to investigate, tentatively prodding it with the iron in case it reanimated. It didn’t, but her fingers found some sort of rock. Something else rustled off in the darkness, and Isla closed her fingers about the object, and scrambled back inside. She bolted the door, then braced it with the kitchen chair – just in case – before investigating what she’d found.

Not a rock, a diamond!


	6. Diamonds and Rust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In line with adjusting how many days in a season etc, I've also made a vague attempt at balancing the economy. Because, as Isla points out, surely a diamond is worth more than a few parsnips?
> 
> Or perhaps not.

“You’ve got to be kidding me? It’s got to be worth ten times that?” Isla bristled at the stout bearded man. “It’s a frigging diamond!”

He shrugged. “Gemstones aren’t all that uncommon around here,” he replied. “Besides, this is a raw diamond – it needs to be sent to a jeweler and cut and polished. Now, if you were to find a prismatic shard, that would be really worth something.”

Isla snatched back her diamond. She wasn’t normally this irritable, but she had spent the last night huddled in her blankets by the fire, hearing every rustle and every crunch and worrying that there were more of those puppet-scarecrow-monsters out there, trashing her garden. Thankfully, the early dawn light had shown nothing more than a few fresh footprints. Also, it had taken her most of the morning to water all her seeds. Now this blacksmith, Clint was his name, apparently, was telling her that the diamond was only worth 750g? The equivalent of twelve pounds of parsnips?

“They’re not even that rare,” Clint continued, seemingly oblivious to her mood. “Their value is almost entirely based on clever – and somewhat corrupt – marketing. You’re welcome to take it to the city and get it appraised – but I doubt you’ll get a better offer.” 

“Whatever.” Isla stuffed it back into her pocket. 

“I can upgrade your tools for you if you want,” he continued, and Isla marveled at his complete inability to read her mood. “But you’ll need to bring me the right ores.” He scratched his beard, then fumbled for something under his desk and handed her a folded piece of parchment. “Here, these are the blueprints for a furnace. Find ores, add some coal and a flame, and you can smelt metal bars.” 

“You could fix my watering can?” Despite her annoyance, Isla had to admit, he could be useful. 

“Sure can,” he said, then laughed as if he’d said something clever.

Isla rolled her eyes.

“Anyway,” he continued. “Five copper bars should do the trick. Oh, and it’ll cost you 2,000g.”

The equivalent of three rough diamonds. Isla sighed, stuffed the furnace blueprints rather messily into her backpack and stalked from the forge. 

She stormed along the riverbank. Did he really think she was that gullible? He was clearly a small town businessman trying to take advantage of the naive outsider. A large building loomed up ahead, and Isla stumbled back, shocked. So, this was the aforementioned Joja mart. Imposing frontage, typical of its type, all blue and white, sterile colors and stark lines. Her heart began racing, frantic, as though it wanted to burst, flying from her chest. The colors blurred before her, twisting and distorting. Shit. 

Was she having a heart attack? And why here, why now? Her lungs seemed to have stopped working; she couldn’t catch her breath. Fuck. No. She’d fought some sort of crazy-ass golem monster, she wasn’t about to die in front of a bloody super-mart. She was better than this. She was...

*

Shane adjusted his sunglasses and kept his head bowed against the bright sun. Dammit, why had the Overlord called him in today? He never worked Sundays, never! But apparently the new truck driver had been delayed, and turned up two days late, on a Sunday morning. Shane was definitely feeling the after-effects of the night before. He crossed the bridge and saw the new farmer, just standing there, staring at the Joja mart as though it were the most horrifying thing she’d ever seen. Well, it certainly wasn’t the prettiest building around, but surely she’d seen them before. Oh... maybe, like him, she’d come here, hoping to escape something she’d rather forget – and found it waiting here for her. It was none of his business, but really, he should talk to her, thank her for the parsnip at least. It had earned him a few brownie points with Marnie last night – even if Jas had pulled a face. Yes, he would walk over there now, introduce himself and... her legs folded beneath her, and she sank to her knees.

It was surprising how fast he could move, the hangover beating a rapid tempo of complaint across his temple. He crouched beside her, blocking her view of the building. “Are you alright?” he asked.

She blinked, as though broken from a trance.

“I’m fine,” she gasped at him, as though she’d suddenly remembered how to breath.

She looked awful – possibly even worse than he did – her skin pale, dark shadows around her startlingly green eyes. 

“You don’t look fine,” he returned, concerned. “Can you stand?” He offered her his hand.

For a moment, he thought she might reject it, or possibly even slap it aside, but she merely sighed and a look of resignation crossed her features. She clasped his hand in hers, and let him help her to his feet. Her palm was rougher than he had expected from a city girl. 

“I don’t know what came over me,” she said.

Shane just grunted. He knew she was lying, she knew exactly what had caused her... panic attack? Faint? Hell, he wasn’t even sure what to call it. “Well, it’s a fucking ugly building,” he said.

That, at least earned a small, slightly shaky, laugh. “Yeh,” she agreed. “Hideous. Certainly doesn’t belong in a quaint little town like this. What’s it even doing here?” She seemed to then realize that she was still holding his hand, and let go abruptly. “Well, err, thanks. I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced.”

“Informal is better,” he replied. “Name’s Shane. Are you sure you’re fine? I could take you to the clinic, you know. You might’ve been overworking yourself on that farm.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Everyone seems to want to drag me to the clinic, it’s almost like they want me to meet Dr Harvey or something.”

“Everyone? Are you prone to hurting yourself or something?”

She winced as though he’d slapped her. What had he said? Oh hell. “I’m not saying you’re clumsy or anything,” he said quickly, then realized it sounded exactly like he was. He was really making an ass of himself. “Well, as long as you’re sure you’re okay, I guess I’d better get to work. The ol’ Overlord’ll have my guts for garters if I’m late.” 

“Wait,” she said, as he was about to walk away. He turned back, found himself flushing a little at the smile on her face. Yep, she was definitely pretty. “Thank you,” she said, and, “In case you didn’t already know, I’m Isla.”

Isla. Shane allowed himself a quiet smile. So much prettier than Eileen.

*

“I suppose I should apologize.” Isla placed the wrapped bundle on the counter “I hope you like parsnips.”

Clint blinked at her in surprise. “Well this is a fun gift, I guess,” he replied. “Why are you apologizing?”

Fun? Isla didn’t want to think too hard about that. “You were right,” she said. “I’m sorry for doubting you. I must’ve rung a dozen gem appraisers in Zuzu, and none would offer me more than 750g.”

He shrugged. “Well, a little research never hurts. Apology accepted. What can I do for you today?”

“You offered to upgrade my watering can,” she said. “But said you’d need me to bring the ore. Um, where can I get that from?”

“You don’t need to bring it,” he said. “I could have some delivered, but to get enough for the upgrade would cost you an additional 1,875g.”

She winced. “Where can I find ore?”

“The mines are the best place for it,” he said. “They’re up north of Mountain Lake. Dangerous place though. If you want to pay them a visit, I’ll give Marlon a call and he can meet you there; he knew the place inside and out. Well, until Joja leased the land it’s on.”

“Joja owns the mine?” Was there any place that wicked corporation didn’t slide their tentacles?

“Only the land it’s on. Something about oil exploration.” He shrugged. “We sealed it up, after the incident...” 

After the flood, and my grandfather’s injury, Isla thought.

“...But I hear it’s open again now. Some sort of incident a couple of weeks ago.”

Isla nodded, she vaguely remembered finding the pamphlet in her mailbox. An apology-that-wasn’t-really-an-apology about a planned explosion gone slightly awry. She’d thrown it in the fire, wanting nothing more to do with Joja Corp. Wait a minute, was that about the same time she’d seen that lone figure? Coincidence? Probably.

“What else is in the mines?” she wondered. She really needed to make some money – and soon. The prepared meals had run out, and she was getting very tired of boiled parsnips, horseradish and spring onions. Thank Yoba, the potatoes should be ready to harvest in a few days.

“Gemstones,” he said. “Maybe some artifacts. Have you been into the museum yet?” 

Isla shook her head.

“Probably not much point,” he continued. “Some beggar broke in and robbed the place a few years back. Took everything. But I’m sure if you find anything interesting, Gunther will take it off your hands. Maybe even pay you for it.”

“Okay,” she said, after but a moment’s hesitation. “Why not? Give Marlon a call, and tell him I’ll meet him up there in, oh, an hour or so? What will I need?”

Forty minutes later and Isla lugged her backpack back up the hill behind her farm. She’d grabbed the pick-axe from the shed, and unearthed her headlamp (useful for cycling around Zuzu, but also good for exploring mountain caves). The pink berries grew everywhere, and she stopped to fill her pockets. They were called salmonberries, she had learned, and had a mild, sweet taste that, for some reason, made her think of the forest; Clint had recommended she bring supplies and cautioned that mining was hard work. Well, at least Isla was no longer a stranger to hard work. 

Linus waved to her from the side of the lake. He crouched on the bank, his other hand trailing in the water, fishing, possibly? Or maybe he was talking to the fish. Who knew? 

She made her way across a crude plank bridge across a dried-up stream, and found herself at the mouth of a cave.

“Hail!” A voice boomed from within. “Enter if thy dare!”

Pretentious much? Isla ducked her head – even though she probably didn’t need to – and walked through the narrow opening. An older man sat cross-legged on the floor, beside a rather crude bonfire. He gestured her to join him.

“You must be Marlon,” she said, and sat down on the floor opposite. 

“That I am.” He looked up; she met his eye. Singular, because the other was hidden behind an eye-patch. He laughed as he saw her notice it. “Lost it a decade ago,” he said, immediately losing the affectation, “to a squid kid with impeccable aim.”

“A what now?” Isla asked.

“A monster,” he replied, quite calmly. “But don’t worry, they live right deep. I hear you’re interested in entering the mines.”

“I hear there are gemstones,” she countered.

“Ay, there are. But ye must tread wary, young warrior.” And... it was back. “For many dangers await the unwary. Here.” He reached down and scooped up something from the ground, thrusting it across the fire and into her hands. A leather sheath and in it, an ancient sword, blade rusted with disrepair.

She frowned down at it. “It’s a bit crap,” she said. “Haven’t you got anything better?”

He gave her a crooked smile. “Thine first test,” he said, “is to see if thou canst do it.”

“What’s with all Ye Olde English-speak?”

He shrugged. “Just a bit of fun. For your first time down, don’t go too deep – you don’t want to get lost. And once you’ve got some blood – or ichor or what-not – on that blade, come visit us at the Adventurer’s Guild.”

“The Adventurer’s Guild?” Was he for real, or was this some sort of live action role-play? She glanced around, as though looking for hidden cameras, but if there were any, they were, indeed, well hidden.

“Ay,” he replied. “Twas once the home of the warriors that defended this valley from the monsters. Once innocent beasts, the taint of the Void fell upon them, corrupted them, and twisted them into foul fiends. Once we were many, but now, we are few.”

Isla was intrigued. A few weeks ago, she would’ve been sceptical but now she’d seen a monster for herself; she knew that they were real – even if that one had moved more like a puppet than of its own purpose. “What happened?”

He waved his hand across the fire. “Science,” he replied. “Technology. The internet.” A shake of his head. “Now, the youth of today are more inclined to defeat the monsters on their screens than those that threaten the real world. Plus, they boarded up the entrance and trapped the creatures within.”

Isla flicked the blade in her hand, examining it in the firelight. 

“I know it’s rusty,” Marlon replied, “but it’s still sharp. It should serve you well enough.”

“I don’t know how to use it,” Isla said. “I’ve never held a sword before.”

Marlon regarded her, his forehead furrowed into a frown of concentration. “Take the pointy end,” he said, solemnly and a little slowly, “and stick it in the monster. Repeat, until it stops moving. And come see us when you’ve made your first kill.” 

“Us?”

“Gil and myself. We are the last surviving members of the Guild. The rest fell, failed, or retired. Anyway.” He stood, and gave a slightly crooked bow. “May Yoba smile upon you.” He limped from the cavern.

“Wait,” Isla called after him.

He turned, his hair shimmering white in the sunlight. “Yes?”

“Was... My grandfather – was he one of you?”

Marlon closed his eye for a long moment, and bowed his head. “Yes,” he said, looking up to meet her eyes. “He was one of our best. When the Void stole his spirit...Well...” With his index finger, he traced the sign of the vessel across his chest. “It is our hope that his grand-daughter may follow in his stride.”

He turned, silhouetted against the sunlight at the entrance of the cave, and stepped from view. Isla stared at the sword. Holy fucking Yoba. She’d thought, coming to the valley, she’d be taking over the farm, growing a few crops, raising some animals. Not fighting monsters corrupted by the Void. Still, she had dispatched that golem-thing easily enough.

The firelight illuminated a shaft in the ground, a crude ladder leading down into the gloom. 

“Bring it on,” she muttered, and clambered down the rickety steps, into the darkness. 


	7. Into the Mines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've noticed not many 'fic writers go into much detail of the mines. When I wrote this chapter, I kinda realized why, as I had to make significant adjustments to their layout for it to be realistic. However, the monsters, and the Void, play an important role in the background lore of this story. Anyway, the mines are more horizontal than vertical and basically run under the entire town.

Moisture dribbled down the rock walls, covering the floor in an array of tiny riverlets. Isla stepped carefully across the uneven ground. She turned, the harsh bright glare of her headlamp illuminating a trail of light through the gloom. The air felt muffled and close, rank with the stink of mildew. Moss coated the walls like furry green wallpaper. Every footstep sounded unbearably loud, and sent a scattering of pebbles. Ore, she had come here for ore – what did it even look like? There! Something glinted, reddish-brown, in the lamplight near her feet. Aha! Isla shrugged off her backpack, and unstrapped the pick-axe. She’d watched a video, even used it to till her soil. Would the same process work on rock? She crouched near the ore vein and hefted back the pick-axe, lifted it over her shoulder, then slammed it into the rock. It struck hard, sending forth a geyser of pebbles. Force reverberated up her arm. Muscles screamed, her grip slipped, and the pick crashed to the ground and bounced, the wooden handle glancing off her foot.

“Fuck, fuck, shit!” she shouted. As if that would make the pain go away. Oh dammit, had she broken her foot? Her voice echoed back at her: “uck, uck, uck, it, it, it.” Why hadn’t she brought sturdier work boots? Her torchlight danced across something, something that sparkled. What was it? A small blue gemstone, and over here, a few red-gold pebbles. Ore? She scraped up all the pebbles and stuffed them into her backpack. They could be sorted later. Retrieving the pick, Isla flexed her ankle and toes, testing them. Pain, yes, a nagging, dull reminder that something was amiss, but everything still seemed to work. Probably just a bit of bruising. Nothing broken. She’d be more prepared for it next time. She moved deeper into the depths of the mine, ducking around stalactites and stepping around rocks. She traced the torchlight across the wall. It was amazing, really, how many different colors there were in rock, so many shades of gray. Markings too, initials carved into the stone: ‘MK 4 JT’ – vandals, even down here?! – and more weird runes, like those in the Community center. 

The language of the Void? A shiver passed down her spine. She fumbled through her backpack, found her notebook and the piece of white chalk. Took a quick rubbing. There was a library here, wasn’t there? Deeper and deeper. Isla used the chalk to mark the wall, turning sideways to move through a narrow gap.

A larger chamber; she could feel space around her. The flashlight showed intricate crenelations of rock, and scuttling, scurrying creatures. Monsters? Isla wasn’t sure – but if they weren’t bothering her, she wasn’t about to bother them. Water fell somewhere ahead, loud plopping drops that sounded almost viscous. Otherwise, silence, a silence so profound that Isla fancied she could hear the blood pulsing through her veins. 

Was that another flash of copper? This time, she hefted the pick with more caution, bracing herself for the rebound. Her arms still screamed in protest, and pebbles rained down around her with bruising force. This was far harder than she’d been led to believe.

Resting the pick-axe beside her, she crouched down to gather up the shattered chunks of stone.

Another squelch, louder this time, closer. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Water dripping? Was it her imagination, or was it coming nearer? Isla spun, the torch’s beam bounced off large boulders, smaller scattered stones, and alighted on something moving, something amorphous. It came closer. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. About the size of a small dog, but it looked like... it looked like... hell, it looked like a kitchen science experiment gone terribly, horribly wrong. Isla stared, transfixed, as the ball of translucent green ooze squelched around a boulder. How was it moving? How was it even alive? Those dark black shadows, were they eyes?

About three feet from her, it seemed to shrink down into itself, flattening itself to the ground. Shudders racking its fluid form. Then it bounced.

Isla barely had time to snatch up the pick-axe. She swung wildly, and missed the thing by a whisker. It struck her chest. Thick heat burned through her clothes. She grabbed the thing; it felt like plunging her hands into burning water. With a scream, she flung it away. It struck the wall with a horrible PLOP, and drip-oozed down it.

“Hah, take that!” Isla screamed, half-mad with adrenaline and pain. She hefted the pick-axe above her head and advanced on it. “Take that, foul fiend!”

The spike struck with a horrible SPLAT, impaling the blob to the wall . Sticky ooze erupted, droplets burning holes in her clothes. Isla relinquished her grip on the pick-axe and drew the sword. She slashed once, twice, then again, and again, and again, feeling droplets of acid rain down on her. The monster wriggled and shuddered, shrinking and expanding in size. Then, finally, with a miserable wet POP, the monster burst, leaving nothing behind but a slimy green puddle.

Isla dropped into a crouch, panting to regain her composure. The pain in her hands had already dissipated into a dull, throb, although her muscles ached. She prodded the puddle with the tip of the sword. What was that, beneath it, half-buried in the dirt? 

Something pink? A pair of woman’s underwear. She wriggled the blade of the sword under them, digging them out; they were stiff with dirt and debris, the elastic half torn away, as though they had been removed with very little care.

A strange place for a rendezvous. 

Near them, something glittered golden; several scattered coins, and with them, a necklace. Isla scrambled over, scooping it up in her hands. The chain trailed, broken in two, and the pendant was a very simple teardrop-shaped blue stone. What was that beyond them? Scratches in the wall? As though someone – or possibly, something – had been clawing at them. And indentations in the floor too, like someone had been dragged, struggling, into this corner. Was it her imagination, or was the dirt here a slightly darker shade?

Isla felt her pulse quicken as her heart started racing and breath rasped in her throat. “No,” she whispered. “Please.” Not another panic attack, not here, not now; there might be more of those monsters out there. 

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath – a mistake, because the air tasted of stagnant mold – and tried to calm her mind. She couldn’t, something bad had happened here; a woman had been... Abducted? Raped? Murdered? All of the above? “It isn’t new,” she whispered. Whatever had happened, whoever had done this terrible thing, they were long gone. Perhaps this was why the mines had been boarded up. Not the flood, not her grandfather’s injury... This.

Shit. Her grandfather had been found down here. Had he tried to stop something, to save this poor woman, and been injured in the process?

Or worse – and her heart clenched tight at the thought – was he the perpetrator?

How well had Isla really known her grandfather?

She slipped the coins and the necklace in her pocket, and retraced her steps, so dazed, it was a miracle that she made it. She wouldn’t – couldn’t – believe that her gentle, story-telling grandfather had hurt this unknown woman, but who was she? What had happened to her?

What dark secrets did the valley hide?


	8. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of light banter between Shane and Jas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many people have questioned in 'fic and on fansites, on how Shane, the guy who spends pretty much all his time at work or the saloon, can fulfil the role of guardian (and even how he achieved it in the first place). There's no question that in game, Marnie and Penny are more Jas's caretakers than Shane is, but I wanted to focus on his nurturing side (and maybe a bit of the corny-side to him that you only really see in his marriage dialogue) and less on how much of a drunkard he is.
> 
> Also, I became aware while writing this that Shane isn't canonically Jas's uncle (for some reason I had it in my head that he was both her uncle and godfather). Basically, the only ingame dialogue that almost-contradicts this is when Jas says that Shane was "good friends" with her parents. And I think we can all agree, siblings can also be friends. And perhaps that felt like a more palatable way to explain it to a small child?

“Have you met the new farmer yet?” Shane asked. He tried to keep his tone casual, but Marnie wasn’t fooled.

“No,” she replied. “But I’m sure she’ll pay us a visit soon – I hear Robin’s going to get her coop sorted, so she’s going to need some chickens.” She grinned at him, a little wickedly. “But you’ve met her, haven’t you?”

“What’s she like?” Jas looked up from her storybook. Something about fairies. The kid couldn’t get enough of them. Fairies and wizards. “Is she pretty?” she frowned. “She gave you the parsnip, right? Ugh, parsnip.” She pretended to gag and Shane scowled at her.

“Not at the table, please sweetie,” Marnie warned.

“So,” Jas continued, unwilling to let it go. “Is she pretty?”

Holy Yoba, the persistence of youth. “Yes,” Shane admitted. “I guess so. Although I hadn’t really thought about it.” Lies! It had been all he had thought about through his day at work. He’d maybe even risked a fantasy or two about them running into each other again. But he’d rather cut out his tongue than admit that to Jas.

“You like her don’t you,” Jas grinned. “Or maybe you luuuuuurve her.” She began to hum, then to sing, “Shane and ... What’s her name again?”

“Isla,” Marnie supplied, rather unhelpfully, Shane thought.

“I don’t love her,” he replied. “I don’t even know her.”

Jas wasn’t listening. Of course she wasn’t. She never listened to him. He was a terrible godfather. 

Almost certainly the worst.

“Shane and Isla up a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N– ” 

“Jas,” Marnie said, very quietly. “Please stop. You’re embarrassing your uncle.”

Jas pouted, but, to Shane’s immense relief, stopped singing. So he thought the new farmer was pretty, what of it? Emily was pretty too – even if her head was in the clouds most of the time. And Haley was beautiful, but that didn’t mean he liked her (the girl practically had a diploma in Bitchiness). Damn, how he needed a beer. 

“May I be excused?” he asked.

Marnie rolled her eyes. “Shane,” she said, “you’re a grown man, you don’t need to ask my permission to leave the table.”

He shrugged. “Old habits die hard, I guess?”

“May I have a story please?” Jas suggested.

“You may,” he replied, trying to sound gallant. Hell, the kid deserved far better than he could offer her. “What would you like to hear?” He scooped her up into his arms. Almost nine, and she weighed next to nothing.

“A luuuuuurve story,” she teased. “Something about a noble prince and... a farm-girl that’s really a long-lost princess in disguise!” 

Shane groaned. Was she going to let this lie? Noble prince! Ridiculous. “Wouldn’t you prefer the one about the princess that fights monsters?”

“Oh yes, that one. I love that one!”

“Thank Yoba,” he replied.

If he’d thought he could then slink off to his room and down a couple of cold ones, Shane was sorely mistaken. Marnie was still seated at the table. “Shane,” she called him over, motioning for him to sit down. He did, albeit with reluctance, knowing he was about to face yet another scolding.

“You’re a good father to her,” she said, surprising him.

“I’m not her father,” he replied. “I’ll never be her father, I’m just some douche who got stuck with raising her. And don’t get me wrong,” he added, cringing a little beneath Marnie’s stern gaze, “she’s a great kid and I love her to pieces. I’m just... well, I’m crap. I’m crap at making money, and I’m crap at making friends. It’s my fault that most of the town thinks she’s shy and reserved. I made her that way – I broke her.”

Marnie shook her head and clasped his hand in hers. “No-one broke her,” she said. “Because she’s not broken! So what if she’s shy – she’s also extremely clever – and she has friends, like Vincent.”

“Only cos she’s the only other kid in town,” Shane muttered.

Marnie slapped his hand. “Stop that,” she said, sounding surprisingly aggressive. “Now you’re projecting your own neuroses onto her. That’s how she’ll get messed up – if you talk negative around her. I never want to hear you talking like that around her, okay?”

“Yes, Auntie Marnie,” Shane replied meekly, nursing his hand. It had not been a gentle slap.

“And you don’t have to call me Auntie,” she continued. “Marnie is fine. We’re adults now.”

“Yes, Aun- Marnie,” he replied. Old habits really did die hard. “May I, err, go now?”

“Not yet,” Marnie said, steel in her voice. “This new farmer, right? I know that you like her, but don’t forget she’s Roland’s grand-daughter, and sometimes the acorn doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

What was that supposed to mean? Shane had met Roland – hell, he’d been sent here when he was twelve, there was always the possibility he’d met Isla as well – and considered the man a bit weird, but harmless. “What do you mean?” he asked, surprised at the edge of grit in his tone. Really, he knew nothing about her – Isla could be mad as a hatter.

“I’m just saying,” she said, “keep an eye on her. Lewis always said that Roland was a good man, one of the best – but he went a little crazy there towards the end. And well, we all remember what happened next.”

“Lewis says,” Shane muttered darkly. “Just because you’re shagging the man doesn’t mean he’s right about everything, about everyone.” He slid the chair back, legs scraping hard across the floor. “I’m leaving.” He stood, unwilling to meet Marnie’s eyes which, he knew, would be filled with sorrow and very little anger. Lewis’s need for secrecy hurt her as much as it outraged Shane.

“Shane,” she whispered, and he turned back.

“What?”

“Clint says she’s begun visiting the mines.”

“Shit,” he whispered. The mines, those mines. Yoba, he needed that drink. “Fuck it, I’m going to the saloon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I'm pretty sure 'shagging' is British slang - but hopefully it's familiar enough to Americans by now? Otherwise, feel free to make more American-istic suggestions. I'm going for not-too-crude.)


	9. A Dark and Stormy Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... A drunk Shane turns up on Isla's doorstep.

“You sent her to the mines!” Shane loomed over Clint. The other townsfolk were staring, and Shane was starting to regret that he’d chosen to confront the blacksmith. It must’ve been the beer talking – Shane was normally content to stand in the corner, drinking pint after pint, talking to no-one – but when Clint had entered, something had ignited within in.

Clint threw up his hands, as though in surrender. “She asked,” he insisted, the faintest tremor in his voice. Shane was a good six inches taller than him. “She asked where to find ore.”

“And you told her – encouraged her to go there.”

“Well, yes.” Clint scratched his head. “I had to, she’s Roland’s heir. We have to know.” His brow furrowed into a frown. “What business is it to you anyway, boy?”

“Mona,” he hissed, slamming his empty tankard on the table – Clint flinched – and marched back to his corner. Emily hastened over to him.

“Are you all right?” she asked. “Only, your aura has gone dark.”

“I’m fine,” Shane growled through gritted teeth. Then, more softly, “Isla’s going into the mines. Goddammit, they’re testing her, Em. Like they tested Mona. What if she fails?” 

“Oh,” Emily replied. She placed her hand on his, and he tried not to snatch it away. “I sense that you are worried about her.” 

No shit Sherlock. Shane bit back an angry retort. The one person he didn’t want to piss off was the person who delivered his beer.

Emily continued, oblivious as usual. “Fate brought her here for a reason, Shane. I’m sure she’ll do just fine.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” growled through gritted teeth. Clint’s eyes were boring into him and he flashed a half-smile at the scowling man – just to piss him off – before turning back to Emily. “I need another beer.”

“Coming right up,” Emily cooed, and danced away. 

Always so damned perky. Whatever that girl was on, it must be pretty good stuff. 

*

Isla turned the necklace over and over in her hands, watching the firelight flicker across the smooth blue-tinted stone. Smooth, except for a single, slightly shakily carved letter, “W”. Outside, the wind began to howl, and rain pelted down, muffled by the cottage’s thatch room.

“Who were you?” she whispered.

A knock at the door, and she almost jumped out of her skin. Were the monsters back again? She’d had enough of their bullshit – at least now she had a sword. She picked up off the floor and strode across to the door. “Go away,” she called out. “Leave me the hell alone.”

“No. Please,” a masculine voice replied. “We need to talk.”

What the hell? Was this some sort of trickery? Hardly – the puppet hadn’t been too sophisticated. She peered through the curtain. 

Shane stood, rather unsteadily, on her doorstep. He wasn’t wearing his jacket, and rain had plastered his hair to his head and his clothes to his skin. Dark smudges surrounded his eyes, stark against his pale skin. Isla slid the chair away from under the door handle and cracked the door open.

“What do you want?” she asked. Sure, it was freezing cold – spring weather was so unpredictable – but Isla knew better than to let a strange man into her house.

“I came... I came to... to warn you of....” He teetered for a moment.

Holy Yoba. He was drunk. Completely and utterly pissed.

“...Of somethin’. Somethin’ imp... impotent. No, imp...important.”

Something screeched beyond him in the darkness.

Shit, the monsters!

A slapping of wind, audible even above the rain. There wasn’t much of a moon, but a shape somehow blacker than the darkness flapped towards them.

He was so drunk he could hardly stand, and soaked to the bone. Besides, Isla had her sword now. She was pretty sure she could stab him, slit his throat, or castrate him if the need for any (or all) of the above arose. “Oh for the love of Yoba,” she muttered, grabbed him by the shoulder, and yanked him inside, slamming the door shut behind him.

Something struck it, slapping against it like a gigantic fish flapping away its life. Or, as was probably the case, a large winged creature trying to force its way in.

“Fuck off!” Isla shouted at it, using anger to mask her fear.

“What’s happening?” Shane slurred. He sunk to his knees, making a squelching noise that was disturbingly reminiscent of the jelly-monster.

“Help me move this,” Isla returned, shoving the table in front of the door. It screeched across the floorboards and into place. Not that it would matter, if the monster decided to focus its attention on the windows. He was absolutely no help whatsoever.

“There’s a monster in your garden,” he said, staring at her, or at least in the vague direction of her. He looked like he could barely focus. How had he even managed to find his way here?

“No shit,” she returned. “And if you came all this way to warn me of that, then you’re an idiot.”

Thank Yoba, the flapping creature had ceased beating at the door.

“Yes,” he agreed, nodding like one of those stupid bobble-head dolls. “Id-idiot. The worst. I... failed. I failed... Mona.” He tried to stand, but couldn’t quite manage it. Isla grabbed his shoulder and steered him to her armchair. His skin was so cold, it almost seared her fingers. Was he really that drunk? Or was it worse than that – was he sick as well? 

“We need to get you warmed up,” she said. “Can you take your shirt off.”

“What?” he blinked at her, as though trying to bring her face into focus.

“Oh for Yoba’s sake. Sit still.” 

He put up minimal resistance, just blinked at her stupidly, as she maneuvered his arms and tugged his shirt over his head. It struck the ground with a wet splat. She tugged off his boots too, then started dabbing at him with the towel, trying to dry him off without paying too much attention to his pale skin, the dark curly hairs that clung to his well-muscled chest, just beginning to turn soft with age and an idle lifestyle. 

“I can...” He tugged the towel from her, rubbed it through his hair, tousling it so that it stuck out at all angles.

“Good.” She threw her bathrobe at him, then helped him into it. Gods, it was like dressing a scarecrow – or a child. She banished that thought from her mind. At least that would keep him warm. “Take your jeans off,” she commanded. There was no way in hell she was going to do that for him.

Several expressions crossed his face in a crazy kaleidoscope of emotion. First bewilderment at the request. Then, for a fleeting second, his eyes lit up with boyish enthusiasm. This was swiftly replaced, however, with a frown, then, alarmingly, fear. “No.” He staggered upright, took a step back. “I, I don’t want to.” Another step, his foot twisted beneath him and he crumpled down hard.

“Are you okay?” Isla crouched down beside him. “I’m not going to hurt you.” She almost laughed at the ridiculousness of her reassuring him. He was six foot tall, give or take, a grown man with a fairly fit physique. Then again, as he flinched away from her touch, it led her to wonder... had something happened to him, in the past?

Was he broken too?

“You need to stand up,” she said. “Look, I’ll help you to the bed. If you don’t get warm, you’ll get a chill and get sick or something, and then you might die – and I cannot have that on my conscience.”

“You’re beautiful,” he muttered. “Like an angel.”

Oh for Yoba’s sake. He was so drunk. “Stand up.” She offered him her hand. He didn’t take it, but managed to lever himself off the floor and stand, swaying ever so slightly.

“Right,” she continued, speaking slowly. “Here’s what’s going to happen: I’m going to walk with you to the bed, and you’re going to sit down. I will turn my back, and you will undress and climb under the sheets. Can you do that?”

He stared at her for a long moment, as though analysing what she’d said, then nodded. “Okay,” he replied, a little meekly, and allowed her to guide him to the bed. Once beside it, his legs seemed to give out, and he collapsed. It groaned beneath the impact. She really needed to get a better bed. Maybe Robin would build her one. His hands fumbled at his belt, and Isla turned her back, hoping like hell he had enough coordination to undo it himself.

“I... I can’t,” he said in a harsh, embarrassed whisper. 

Oh for the love of... Isla turned back, and he grabbed her wrist. His fingers were icy cold. He flinched a little as she swiftly unhooked the belt and, trying not to think too hard about where her hands were, popped the button, slid the zip down, and jumped back as though she’d been burned. Of course, she then had to help him tug the damn things off. Wet jeans, it turned out, pretty much adhered themselves to the skin. As soon as they fell to the ground in a soggy heap, he scrambled back along the bed, almost hitting his head on the low roof in his haste to get away from her. He tugged the blankets across himself. Isla busied herself, and hid her blush, by gathering up his wet clothes. If only she had a dryer – but all she had was a rickety old clotheshorse. 

She set the kettle on the stove to boil – coffee would warm them both up. A bath would’ve helped too, but no... and hell, he probably would’ve drowned himself. Isla found her thoughts lingering, a little too long, on her hands, brushing against his groin – accidentally, of course – and the answering pulse of heat. He’d called her ‘beautiful’ – but that was clearly the alcohol, or possibly delirium, talking – but he’d also shied away, flinched, when she’d first touched him. And he was a stranger – and drunk to boot. Pull yourself together, she scolded herself. The hot water splashed into the mug, droplets stinging her hands, still a little raw from the monster’s slime. 

He’d come here to warn her – but of what? 

Coffee cup nestled warmly between her hands, she headed in to offer it to her unexpected guest, only to find he’d burrowed himself under the blankets and fallen asleep. His face seemed softer in rest, the grim line of his mouth relaxed. She laid another duvet over him and the corner of his mouth twitched. A part of her wanted to stroke his cheek, to run her hands over the rough stubble of his chin, see if she could tease out a smile. Ridiculous. She brought the chair through, wrapped another rug around her shoulders, and sat, sipping coffee. I’m not watching him sleep, she tried to convince herself. I’m making sure he doesn’t throw up and choke on his own vomit.


	10. The Morning After the Night Before

Wan sunlight trickled through the threadbare curtains, trailing bright fingers across the sleeping man. Shane blinked awake, squinting, as the light seared straight through his retinas and into the back of his head. Hell, it hurt. Why had he done this to himself again?

A lumpy mattress dug into his back and a heavy duvet pressed down on him, smelling faintly musty. There was a dampness beneath his legs. Fuck, had he wet the bed again? And it wasn’t even his bed. So who’s bed was it? 

The night before flashed back in fragments: He’d quarreled with Marnie, stormed out to the saloon. Forgotten his Void-damned jacket. Clint had been there and he’d shouted at him, threatened him? Why? Something to do with Isla and the mines. Yes, that was it, Clint had persuaded Isla to go into the mines. And he’d come here to – what? To warn her? Tell her it was dangerous?

He was in Isla’s house. In her bed!

If only he could remember what had happened – had anything happened? Knowing him, he’d probably just passed out. He was such a dumb-ass. Footsteps creaked from the other room. A voice singing softly, and slightly off-key.

This was her house, then. He scanned the room. The ceiling rose high in the center, dropping down to low eaves just above the bed. Threadbare paisley curtains. A tasseled lamp that had clearly seen better days. It looked like it had been furnished using op-shop rejects. Smelt like it too: like wet clothes and mildew, with an undercurrent of lavender. On a small table beside the bed, beside a vase with half-wilted dandelions, sat a glass of water and a couple of painkillers. He dry-swallowed the tablets, wincing at the sharp taste, then downed the glass of water. Dammit, he needed to piss. Time to get this flabby old bod out of bed. Swung his feet around, heaved off the blanket... What the hell was he wearing? A bright yellow flannelette dressing gown and... nothing else. Well, nothing but his black boxers and his socks. He tugged the gown about himself. The wooden floor creaked beneath his feet as he shuffled through into a tiny bathroom, mostly dominated by a large claw-foot bathtub. After relieving himself, Shane caught his reflection in the mirror on the way out. Tried to avoid them, mostly, hated the look of himself. Hated the dark shadows around his eyes, the stubble that was swiftly becoming beard. When had he last shaved? Yesterday? The day before? His hair was a mess. Hell, who was he kidding? He was a mess. Hand on the bathroom door, about to leave. Could he find his clothes, sneak out without talking to her? Then he heard voices.

“... Sorry I haven’t dropped by sooner.”

Shit – Marnie! He ducked back into the bathroom – his headache stabbed him in protest – and leaned his ear against the crack of the door. What was she doing here? 

“Hello,” Isla’s cheeriness sounded forced. What had happened last night? Oh gods, what if he’d propositioned her – or worse?! “I’ve been meaning to visit you,” she continued, “to introduce myself and thank you for the meals. But, I guess time just kinda got away with me. Running a farm is a lot of hard work.”

“Tell me about it,” Marnie replied. “The ranch keeps my hands full. And the meals were from all of us – a community effort. I hope you’ve enjoyed them. But, I’ve come here about more urgent matters. Do you know where Shane is? Have you seen him? Isla made no answer, and Shane’s heart beat a rough tempo against his chest. 

“Tall man, dark hair,” Marnie prompted. “We had a quarrel last night, and he stormed out. Gus said he was at the saloon, but left in a hurry and, well, no-one’s seen him since. Jas and I are a bit worried, what with the downpour last night and all.” She was trying to sound casual, but Shane could hear the panic fighting to break through. Guilt clutched his chest in its iron fist. Marnie probably thought he was unconscious – or worse – in a ditch. He didn’t deserve someone like her. Someone who cared. His feet took a step through the door, perhaps intending to take him from the tiny bedroom and into the living room, but his brain intercepted first.

He couldn’t do that to Isla, couldn’t embarrass her by stepping out of her bedroom wearing nothing but her dressing gown. There was no way she’d want to be connected to Pelican Town’s biggest loser. 

“Oh right,” Isla replied casually. “Yeah, he's here.”

What the hell?

“I was up by Mountain Lake yesterday, and headed home late. And I must’ve taken a wrong turn,” she continued. “The rain was quite disorientating. Anyhow, Shane found me, and offered to guide me home.”

“He wasn’t too... inebriated.” A hopeful quiver in Marnie’s voice.

“Well, he wasn’t exactly sober,” Isla replied, “but he seemed coherent enough. By the time we got here, the rain was bucketing down, and we were soaked to the skin. I didn’t want him to walk home in it, so I suggested that he stay the night. Sorry I didn’t ring – I don’t know your number, and Shane had forgotten his phone.”

Her tone was so convincing that Shane wondered if it were actually the truth. No, his memory was a blurred mess, but he vaguely remembered standing on the doorstep, and hearing thrashing wing-beats... 

“I slept on the couch,” Isla continued. “He’s too tall for it, so I let him have the bed. It was all very proper, don’t worry.”

“Is he still there?” Marnie’s voice held an edge that made Shane aware that there would be many questions asked of him.

“Yes,” Isla replied smoothly, without any hint of embarrassment. “Sleeping like a baby.” Shane winced. “Would you like me to wake him?”

“No, that’s fine. And he seemed okay to you? Not a bit glum, or anything like that?”

“He seemed fine.” 

“Oh, that’s good.” Marnie sounded quite taken aback. “Well, I guess I’ll see him later. Um.. thank you, for being upfront with me, and for keeping an eye on him.”

“My pleasure,” Isla replied, and Shane heard the door click shut.

Her pleasure?

A light rap on the bedroom door followed, and Shane jumped, hugging the bathrobe about himself. If only it hung lower than his knees, and didn’t show his pale, hairy legs.

“You decent?” Isla asked.

“Um, not really,” he ventured, but it didn’t seem to dissuade her, for she entered a heartbeat later. She looked delightfully rumpled, her hair sticking out in wild frizzles. She was wearing a faded long-sleeved t-shirt emblazoned with some sort of fantasy-style print – probably an album cover – that hung to her knees, beneath it, leggings that really hugged the muscles of her calves. 

Stop looking Shane. Yes, look at her face. No, not her breasts, her face.

“Ah,” she said, “you’re up.” – he felt his face heat at the innuendo, even though he was sure she meant it in innocence – “Would you like a coffee?”

Hell yes. “That’d be great, thanks,” he said. “Look I should apologize.”

Isla turned and flashed him a grin that made his knees melt. “You don’t owe me an apology,” she said. “You owe me an explanation. But, coffee first. Sorry, but it’s instant. And would you like a baked potato with fried leek and a side of salmonberries.”

“Just coffee’s good,” he replied quickly.

The coffee wasn’t good. It was foul, packaged stuff more sugar than coffee. Still, between it and the painkillers, the hangover had been subdued into little more than a dull, throbbing, memory. He sat nursing the beverage, watch as Isla fussed in the tiny kitchenette, mixing her own coffee and pouring in a sachet of creamer. “I really need to get some milk,” she commented.

“You could do better than that. You could get a cow. You’ve got the land for it.” It was amazing how easy she was to talk to. Aside from Emily, he’d hardly held a conversation with anyone except Marnie and Jas.

“Or a goat!” Her eyes were alight with enthusiasm. “But I’m getting chickens first. I’ve got to have eggs for breakfast.”

“Chickens!” Now she was talking. “I can help you with those,” he offered, then bit his tongue. “Only, you know, if you want me too.” Of course, she wouldn’t; he was a useless, drunken loser. He couldn’t believe she’d seen him at his absolute worst, yet had still offered him breakfast. The woman really was an angel.

“Thanks. I know nothing about keeping animals,” she replied. “I’m going to need all the help I can get.” She set her plate on the table, and Shane’s stomach unleashed an embarrassing rumble. It hadn’t sounded particularly appetising, but it actually looked pretty damn good and smelt even better. She must’ve seen the hungry gleam in his eyes. Hell, maybe he was drooling. “I’m not much of a cook,” she said, “but I get by. You can have some, if you like, I’ve baked, like, a dozen spuds, and there’s salmonberries and leeks everywhere at the moment.”

“Only if you’re sure.”

She slid the plate over to him, then got up to dish another.

“Why did you lie to Marnie,” he asked suddenly, surprising even himself. Dammit tongue, why didn’t you consult brain? “Sorry,” he muttered, shovelling fried leek into his mouth.

She turned, frowning at him. “I didn’t? Did I? I told her you were here, and you were.”

“No,” he said, “before that. You said I walked you home.”

“Oh,” she said, “Right. That. Sometimes I find it’s better to give a more palatable almost-truth.” She slid her plate onto the table beside him, and carried a stool over. “Would you rather I told her you’d turned up on my doorstep, so pissed you could barely stand, and told me you were impotent.”

He’d what?! A chunk of leek lodged in his throat. “I’m not,” he spluttered. “I mean, I didn’t. Did I?”

Isla set a glass of water in front of him. “You totally did,” she said, fey glee dancing in her eyes.

“Shit.” He pressed his head against the table. Her laughter was musical and totally infectious. “Why the hell did you even let me inside?” He risked a glance at her.

She shrugged. “I didn’t fancy cleaning your blood off the porch in the morning. Couldn’t really have it on my conscience, if I let you die on my doorstep.”

“The giant bat? That was real?” 

“You saw it? Hell, yeah. The monsters are real.” She sipped her coffee. “So far I’ve seen three: some sort of puppet-scarecrow-thing made of weeds, an animated gelatinous blob, and a bat the size of an eagle. A big eagle.”

“A golem, a slime and a bat,” Shane rasped. A tally-score, recorded in Mona’s journal. He’d read it, after... after everything, hoping it would hold the answers but finding, instead, only more questions.

“Have you been to the mines?” he’d clearly piqued her interest. 

“No.” He shook his head and toyed with his fork, twirling the strands of leek around the plate. “I lost someone to them, once, someone close.”

“Oh.” Isla’s tone mirrored his mood. 

“She didn’t die there,” he said. “Although I’ve heard others have. But... the mines, they changed her. Like they awakened a darkness within her.”

“The Void corrupts,” Isla whispered.

Shane looked up then, met her eyes. They were green yes, but flecked with gold and blue. Filled with life but clouded with sorrow. You could tell so much about someone by staring into their eyes. He wondered what his told her. And looked away quickly. If she could see into his soul... well, she wouldn’t be sitting here opposite him. He nodded instead. “That’s what I came to say to you, Isla. Last night. I’d ask you not to go there, but, well, I’ve no right to ask you anything. Just... be careful. Please.”

She reached out, her fingers brushing his chin, encouraging him to face her. Her touch sent a stabbing thrill, that he quickly reined in. 

“Thank you,” she said. Her hand withdrew, and its absence brought a pang of regret. 

“I should go,” he said setting down the fork. His message had been delivered, and she had actually listened! Whether she heeded his warning, well, that was her business, not his. “I’ve held you up too long. I’m sure you’ve got important farm work to do. And I’d better get ready for work.” Thank Yoba he was on afternoon shift today. The Overlord would have him hanged, drawn and quartered if he came in late again. 

Isla nodded and began to gather up the empty crockery. “It’s still raining,” she said, “so I don’t need to water, and I can harvest stuff later, when the weather clears. I’m planning on spending the morning reading up about DIY furnaces and preserve jars. If you’re not too busy though, would you be able to drop by this weekend? Robin should have the coop fixed up by then, and I’m gonna need some help getting it chicken-worthy.”

He nodded, turning away so she couldn’t see his blush. She wanted to see him again! What did it mean? That she fancied him?

No, that was ridiculous – he was a loser, who’d wet her bed! – she wanted chickens, not him. “Yes, definitely.” He slid the chair back and stood, stooping to grab his boots.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Isla gestured at the clotheshorse by the fire, where his jeans and shirt still steamed slightly, permeating the air with humidity. 

“What? Oh yes, um, thanks.” He claimed them, scrambled into the other room and hastily changed, hanging the robe from a hook on the wall. The jeans had dried stiff, and it felt like walking in cardboard armor. 

“Bye then,” she said, opening the door for him. “I’ll see you Saturday?”

“Saturday it is,” he replied. “And, err, I’m sorry about the bed.”


	11. Another Visitor

What about the bed?

Isla leaned back, resting against the wall for a moment, waiting for her heart rate to stabilize. What the hell was wrong with her? Sure, he was good-looking enough, if you liked designer stubble and tousled hair (and, as it turned out, she very much did). But the guy had turned up on her doorstep in the middle of the night, as drunk as a lord – on a weeknight. That had to be a red flag. Still, he had quarreled with his – mother? Perhaps he’d needed to drown his anger.

Isla knew all about drowning anger – except she drowned hers with blood, not booze.

Yoba, that made her sound like a murderer. Or a vampire.

A rap at the door jolted Isla from her introspection. She peered through the curtains to see Shane standing there, staring downwards – at his feet?

Had he forgotten something? He wasn’t going to ask her to tie his shoes, was he?

She creaked open the door.

“Sorry,” he said. “Your cat wanted in.”

“I don’t have a ca–“ Isla replied, as a large ginger cat jammed its head through the door, then pushed it wide enough open to wriggle through. Fluffy plume of a tail raised in a questioning arc, it sidled up to Isla’s leg and head-butted her hard enough to destabilize.

“Really?” Shane replied, and flashed her a lopsided grin. “I guess you do now. Anyway, gotta go.” 

She watched him walk away, rather stiffly; damp jeans were a bitch, but they did cling to his backside rather appealingly. 

“Mrp?” The cat head-butted her, as if to say, why are you starring at him? I’m far more interesting. Isla laughed and crouched down, scratching it between its tufted ears. His ears – ginger cats were usually male, right? She was sure she’d read that somewhere. Besides, this cat was huge; it must have some Maine coon in it. 

“Who do you belong to?” she asked. His fur was matted, perhaps he’d been living wild? Her grandfather’d had a cat but it couldn’t be, surely? There was no way this fellow was over ten years old. How long did cats live for anyway? She scratched around his neck, feeling through the fur for a collar. There wasn’t one.

The cat stood upright, brushing the top of his head against her chin.

“You’ve very friendly.” Someone must be missing him. She’d always wanted a pet, but the ex hadn’t approved. Unhygienic and unnecessary, he’d said. The cat turned, his tail tickling her nose, and made her laugh. “Three visitors in less than a day.” She scratched behind his ear. “I’d have to say, Shane might come a close second, but you’re definitely my favorite.”

“Mrwp!” He seemed to approve of that, and rewarded her by leaning into her hand and unleashing a rumbling purr. 

Isla stood, and walked towards the fridge. “You must be hungry.” She opened the door and frowned at the contents. “I don’t suppose you like baked potatoes, do you? Or salmonberries.” He nudged past her, sticking his nose in and sniffing, whiskers twitching, before giving a warble of disgust and trotting away. Isla hadn’t realized cats could communicate so efficiently.

He scratched at the door. “Oh, you want to go out now?” She rolled her eyes and opened it. “You just came in.” Maybe this was his daily routine, visiting everyone in town and charming them into feeding him. She’d have to get some fish or something, if she didn’t want to disappoint him next time. Isla closed the door behind him, then went to strip the sheets off the bed.

She groaned. Damn, if only she’d insisted Shane dried himself off before he climbed under the sheets, but he’d seemed so oddly afraid of her. Was this what he’d apologized for? Did he think he’d pissed the bed? It was definitely just water, and would dry, but she’d need to air the mattress too. The room already reeked of dampness. If only country cottages came with ventilation systems.

“They do,” she said aloud. “They’re called windows.”

Sheets hung over the clotheshorse like a fort, and the mattress leaned against the wall near the fire; the stink of wet cloth and the cloying humidity in the air made the room feel claustrophobic. Isla needed fresh air. There was a library right? It shared a building with the museum. Maybe it had something about the Adventurer’s Guild or, even better, the monsters in the valley.

She slipped on a coat and her boots – no sense in getting changed, she wasn’t trying to impress anyone – and opened the door.

“Hello,” she said to the large ginger cat. “What are you still doing here?”

He dropped a black envelope at her feet and looked up at her expectantly. 

“Mewreep.”

She bent down and picked it up. “Where did you get this?” Glanced at her mailbox, the door had fallen open; scraps of paper littered the ground. “Did you do that?”

The cat looked away, began licking his shoulder, then brought a hind-leg forward and scratched himself behind the ear. 

“You’re not fooling me.” Isla studied the envelope. Her name – her full maiden name – was printed on the front in silver cursive. She didn’t recognize the hand-writing. A wax seal, which appeared to hold the imprint of an apple, held it closed. Was someone she knew getting married? But Isla had no friends close enough to invite her to a wedding. Intrigued, she popped open the seal – carefully, because she wanted to keep it intact – and slipped out the letter:

“My sources tell me you’ve been poking around the old community center. Why don’t you pay me a visit? My chambers are west of the forest lake, in the stone tower. I may have information concerning your... ‘rat problem’. \- M. Rasmodius, Wizard.

A wizard? Or was Abigail playing some sort of crazy game with her? That explained the cat though, because, apparently, it was true – wizards had cats. He’d probably got impatient of waiting; it was dated three weeks ago. Isla made a mental note to check her mail more often. 

“Mrp?” The cat’s topaz eyes studied her intently, as though awaiting her answer.

“Very well,” she said. “I’m intrigued. Lead me to your master.”

The cat lashed his tail and flattened his ears.

“Sorry, I mean, please escort me to the wizard. Err, noble beast.”

Ears perked and tail raised, the cat trotted south, through her crop fields and into the, as-yet, unclaimed wilderness beyond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter for today. Please feel free to drop comments below, or add kudos.   
> Thanks!


	12. Meet the Wizard

The rain had dwindled back to a drizzly haze, filling the air with a rich, fresh scent. So much nicer than the musty stink of Isla’s cabin. The two of them walked past the pond, and down, past the coop, now looking much fancier, although it still needed a fresh coat of paint – the forecast said tomorrow would be sunny, so she’d do it then. Beyond that, trees and weeds still clustered about the south-west corner, which held a larger, deeper, darker lake. The ‘wilderness corner’ she called it. It was probably where the monsters lurked. There, or in the cave. The cat moved with purpose, stepping carefully through the long grass and pausing every now and then to shake of his paws and turn back to glare at Isla. Hurry up, he seemed to be saying. We haven’t got all day.  
She fought her way through a patch of brambles and found a pathway leading south, the remains of paving stones doing their best to hold back the encroaching weeds.

“Merwp!” the cat reminded her of the urgency of their errand.

Below the farm lay Cindersap Forest. Isla had seen it on her map, but hadn’t ventured there yet. Marnie’s ranch stood off to the east, a proud collection of red-roofed brick buildings. Well, that might make moving the livestock easier – as long as she cleared those brambles first. 

It’ll also make it easier to visit Shane, her treacherous libido interjected. She put it firmly in its place. Beside the ranch towered an enormous cherry blossom tree. Beneath its spreading branches, a tiny, dark-haired girl was skipping with a jump rope, deep in concentration. 

“1... 2... 3... oh,” she stumbled, distracted by the sauntering cat. “Hello Mister Ginger.” 

The cat rubbed his head against her, purring, and she scratched behind the ears. A heartbeat later, she saw Isla. “Hi,” she said, her voice now shy and shaky. “Are you Miss Isla?”

Isla crouched down to her level – that was what you did with kids, right? Made them feel more comfortable – “Yes,” she replied. “And are you Jasmine?”

She looked younger than eight, and one of the bows in her hair had come untangled. She nodded, both shy and curious. 

“Where’s your guardian?” Isla asked. In Zuzu, kids were never alone. Anything could happen to them. It might be a bit safer here, in the countryside – but was it really? What about the monsters?

“He’s at work,” she replied. “And Auntie Marnie’s busy in the shop. Is Mister Ginger your cat?”

“No.” Isla’s heart gave a kick of realization. Shane was her guardian – her father? Was it her mother – his girlfriend?– he’d lost to the mines and the Void? “I don’t think he belongs to anyone but himself. Mister Ginger, is that his name?”

Jasmine shrugged. “It’s just what I call him, not what he calls himself. He’s my friend.”

Strange child. “What does he call himself?”

Mister Ginger burred impatiently, he paced back and forth, tail-tip flicking.

“I can’t say,” Jasmine replied, then glanced out the house. “I have to go now. I’m not supposed to talk to strangers. But it’s nice to meet you, Miss Isla.” She studied Isla, her blue eyes intent, twirling one of her dark ringlets around her finger. “Uncle was right,” she said. “You are pretty.” Then she was gone, skipping off along the path, and into the house.

Uncle then. And he thought she was pretty.

Then “Ow!” The cat had nipped her, light enough it barely even indented the skin, reminding her that there were more important things. “Oh, all right. I’m coming,” she grumbled.

The stone tower rose crookedly from the forest. Isla had to admit, it was pretty much the archetype of wizard’s tower. Asphalt roof, creeping ivy and wisteria, narrow windows – it looked almost exactly like something from the pages of a children’s storybook. The cat charged up the steps towards the door and stood on his hind-paws to scratch at it. Isla used the door knocker instead.

“Enter,” a voice boomed from within, sounding almost amplified.

If the tower had seemed like a cliché, the wizard looked even more so. Long black robes, pointed hat, beard – he had it all. As well as piercing dark eyes, barely visible between his thick furry eyebrows and curling mustache. Isla hesitated by the door, uncertain. Some sort of arcane symbol had been laid out in a circle on the floor – complete with candles – and a cauldron bubbled in the corner, permeating the air with strange aromas: there was a hint of lemon, rosemary, a trace of something sharper. Darker. “Greetings Isla,” he said. “I am Rasmodius, seeker of the arcane truths. Mediary between the physical and the ethereal. Master of the seven elementals. Keeper of the sacred cha– ah you get the point. I have been expecting you.” The cat brushed against her leg, then trotted across the circle without, apparently, suffering any ill effects. The wizard leaned down to pat his head. “You’re late.”

“I’m sorry,” Isla replied. “I only got your message today.”

“Ah well, no matter,” he replied. “Better late than never, I suppose. I have something to show you.” He reached into his pouch and withdrew a handful of glittering sand, sprinkling it over the arcane circle. The candles flickered, dimmed and flared up brighter than before. “Behold!”

Isla pressed her back against the door frame, ready to flee if things got too weird. 

The sand rose and coalesced, taking the form of – for lack of a better description – a cheerful apple.

“What is it?” She’d seen this before, right? Just a flickering glance, in a dark room.

“They call themselves the junimo,” he said. “They are the spirits of the valley, but for reasons unknown, a small clan now reside in the community center. They refuse to speak with me. Perhaps you shall have better luck.”

“The arcane symbols,” Isla muttered. Were these junimo summoning the Void?

“You have found a message from them? Show me!”

“I can’t,” Isla replied. “I didn’t copy it. There was a plaque on the floor. In one of the rooms.”

“Stay here,” he declared. “I must go and investigate.” With that, he stepped into the circle. Lights, like tiny fireflies, danced around him. And he disappeared.

What the hell?

Isla glanced around, half expecting it to be some sort of trick. Was he hiding behind one of the curtains? Then the door creaked open behind her, and she jumped. He strolled in, as though this were perfectly normal.

Perhaps it was. For him.

“I found the plaque,” he said. “The language is obscure – but I know it. Would you like to know what it says?”

Isla took a deep breath to ease her fluttering pulse. “Why not?”

He coughed to clear his throat, then recited: “We, the junimo are happy to aid you. In return, we ask for gifts from the Valley. If you are one with the forest, than you will see the true nature of our script.” He speared Isla with his piercing dark eyes. “This message is not for me, Isla Alexander. The junimo have chosen you. It is a great honor.” He gestured at the room. “For a decade, the Valley has stagnated into decay. The community center fell, and the people lost touch with the forest – and worse, with each other. Now, the Void has awoken in the depths, and spreads out its wicked tendrils, corrupting all it embraces. Once, Roland Alexander helped to hold back that darkness, but he lost his battle – and the valley lost its protector. Will you take up the mantle?” What the fuck? Panic unfurled, beating its wings against the inside of her chest. This was all fairy tale bullshit, surely, but, it didn’t feel like that. It felt... real. It felt... right. Like something had led her on this path, led her here – and not just the cat. Isla must have nodded, because Rasmodius’s mustache twitched, as though the mouth beneath it were smiling. “Come, drink tea with me.” He scooped a tin mug into the cauldron and handed the weird, bubbling, frothy mixture to her, before filling another for himself.

It looked disgusting, a sort of greenish-brown color, a layer of greasy white-green foam on top. “What is it?” she asked.

“Tea,” the wizard replied, and took a large gulp from his mug. 

Isla stared at hers suspiciously, then looked at him. Apart from a bit of the froth caught in his mustache, he didn’t seem to be suffering any ill effects. Still... “Um, no thanks.”

One of his impressive eyebrows twitched upwards. “Do you want to become one with the forest?”

“Well yes,” she replied tentatively. “But not in the literal sense.” 

“Then you must drink.” Command radiated in his tone, and Isla felt herself compelled to bring the foaming cup to her lips, and take a large gulp.

It tasted terrible. Rosemary and lemon, yes, but also a strong earthen taste, with a hint of caramel and a touch of green. Her eyes watered and she felt her body stiffen. The mug slipped from her fingers. It struck the ground and bounced, what remained of its contents splashing across the floor. Her mind was floating. Fuck. He’d drugged her! Through the blur of tears, she could see trees, rising up around her. The sharp scent of pine permeated the air. Rasmodius hands were firm and warm upon her shoulders, steadying her as she fell to her knees, palms pressed against the ground. In the earth beneath, she could sense tiny organisms: worms and other critters, creeping and crawling. Above, in the dark recessed of the chamber, a spider spun her intricate orb web. The cat was a great golden, powerful presence, pressed up against her side. His rumbling purr vibrated through her body. Outside, birds called, their melodious calls holding less than melodious messages: warnings and propositions. Every smell, every sound, every sense, felt sharper, more intense. Overwhelming. Isla lost control of her body, fell to the ground, limbs jerking. Fuck, wetness soaked down her leg; she’d pissed herself. Then the cat was on her, his tongue rasping and rough against her face. Isla blinked, coming back. Found herself sitting on the floor, in a rank, stinking puddle, and Rasmodius staring down at her. He offered her his hand.

“Get the fuck away from me,” she growled, her voice came out a raw rasp. “What the hell have you done?” The cat jumped into her arms, flattened his ears and drawing back his lips, glaring at the wizard.

“I am sorry,” he said. “It is not a pleasant process. But it has worked? You are now one with the forest.”

It was true. The intensity had diminished, yes, but the heightened senses were still there. If she wished, she could hear the spider, busily weaving her web. Could feel the hunger of the swallow chicks that nested in the eaves, the busy joy of their father. Could almost taste the– no, she dulled that sense back, pushed it down into the recesses of her mind. “You could’ve warned me,” she muttered. “Why didn’t it affect you?”

“It did,” he replied. “But I have had decades to get used to the taste.”

Grudgingly, she accepted his hand, and stood. “I need to get changed.”

Those massive purple eyebrows waggled again, and with a simple wave of his hand, the moisture on the floor evaporated, along with the uncomfortable wetness. 

“Thanks,” she muttered, although she didn’t really mean it. “Um, what now?”

“Now you leave,” he said, “and begin to restore what was broken.”


	13. Cindersap Forest

Broken. Isla mused as she walked through the forest. It was a word with so many meanings. Shattered, destroyed, chipped. Or just... just not right. Pelican Town didn’t look broken. But then again, Isla knew that broken things – broken people – often tried to hide it.

It was her first time into Cindersap and, with her new heightened senses, everything seemed more intense. Birds sang and whistled from the treetops, squirrels chattered down at her from tree branches. If she focused, she couldn’t so much understand them, as feel what they were saying.

Mostly, the squirrels were shrieking insults at the large ginger cat that strolled at her side, and the birds were calling warnings to their friends. Tail raised and ears perked, the cat paid them no heed.

Jasmine had been correct, his name wasn’t Mister Ginger, and she couldn’t say it, not because it was forbidden or unpleasant, but because it wasn’t physically possible. It wasn’t words, it was a feeling, an essence.

“He’s not my cat,” Rasmodius had said, when Isla tried to dissuade the feline from following her.

“I know,” she replied. “He belongs to no-one but himself, but isn’t he living with you?”

The wizard had given her a crooked grin. “I believe he merely deigned to grace me with his presence, whilst he awaited a better opportunity. He’s your guardian, Isla.”

Her guardian indeed. “I’m not calling you Mister Ginger,” she said, reaching down to run her hand along his spine. “You’re a powerful creature, you need a powerful name.” There was a name, a good name, a strong name. She’d chosen it, for her son, but the ex had brushed it aside. ‘Do you want our son to be teased mercilessly? Show some compassion.’ Of course, it hadn’t mattered, in the end. Their son would never face mockery. Never face anything.

Dark thoughts. Her hand slipped up the sleeve, rubbing the raised welts of wounds that were, physically, long healed, but that would never leave her.

The cat was looking at her expectantly. With names came power, right? Wasn’t that what the stories always said?

She crouched down to his level, cupped his jaw with her hand. “What do you think of the name ‘Titus’,” she said. “It means ‘defender’. And he was a Roman emperor.”

A head butt and a “Mrrp,” reassured her that he approved.

“Excellent.” She continued her walk, pausing to dig up a horseradish and pick a couple of leeks. The path followed a river along, past an abandoned house. A sign outside indicated it had once been called ‘The Mad Hatters’. The door was boarded up, but the grim covered windows revealed what looked, disturbingly, like an array of blank severed heads. Some still show-cased a dusty array of adornments. “Strange place to run a shop,” Isla commented. 

Titus didn’t answer, he was too busy sniffing around the door. It was probably full of mice. He might be some sort of immortal guardian feline, but in spirit, he was, clearly, mostly cat.

A wooden plank-bridge led to a small island, and across that into another patch of forest. There were several large clearings here, and Isla dug up several bunches of spring onions. A rank aroma filled the air, and her newly heightened senses alerted her to a darkness, lurking below the earth. She found the sewer outlet a few minutes later, spewing vile green sludge into the ocean. Titus bounded forward to investigate the grate, then recoiled from it, tail bristled and ears flat. At the foot of the cliff, plastic bags and broken bottles littered the tiny strip of beach.

“The teenagers again?” Isla wondered aloud. Although, in this instance, she supposed this could be detritus from one of the many boats that traversed the Gem Sea. And why did a town this small even need a sewer? Shouldn’t the houses be on independent septic tanks? Her cottage certainly was. 

Pockets filled with forage, she headed north again. It seemed her sense of direction had improved too, for she found herself just south of Marnie’s ranch, beside a small, very pretty, cottage with an emerald green roof.

“Why hello there!” A cheery voice came from through the trees, bringing with it a tall red-haired woman. She wore her hair in a long braid that hung almost to her waist. “I’ve been meaning to drop by and say ‘hi’ – since we’re practically neighbors and all!” She offered Isla her hand. “I’m Leah.”

Isla shook her hand. Firm grip, assertive. “Isla,” she replied.

“I see you’ve been foraging! There’s some good stuff in these parts.”

Immediate guilt. Had she taken too much, been greedy? “Would you like some spring onions?”

“Thank you! Can I invite you in? I was about to have a hot chocolate. I love the way the forest smells after rain, but the air’s still a bit nippy.” She glanced at Titus, who stood on his haunches, sniffing at her pockets. “I might have a little cheese for your cat.” “Oh, he’s not my cat,” Isla replied. “If anything, I’m his human.”

Leah had a pretty, musical laugh. 

“Burrup,” Titus agreed.

“But he’d love some cheese.” She paused. People have lost touch with one another. It was time to come out of her shell, time to connect. “And I’d love a hot chocolate.”

Leah opened the cottage, and gestured Isla into a homey interior. The air was fragrant with fresh wood, and dry hay. The wood scent came from a sculpture in the corner. Tools littered the floor around it, and it was wonderfully curved, parts smooth and elegant, others still raw and rough. 

“I’m a sculptor,” Leah explained. “I love working with wood. Once you get past the outer layers, the true nature starts to show.”

“It’s the same with people,” Isla remarked, thinking of herself. And of him: the ex. Oh, but his outer layers had been entirely too convincing. If only his true nature had shown itself sooner.

Leah shot her a look of surprise. “That’s absolutely right. Although, I’m sad to say, it’s not easy to pay the bills as an artist. Luckily, here,” – a gesture that indicated the room – “there’s not too many bills to pay.”

Isla’s ears pricked metaphorically, and Titus’s literally. Restore the sense of community. “What about an art show?” she said. “We could invite people from the neighboring towns, hell, some might even come from Zuzu!”

A blush spread across Leah’s face, and guilt came crashing down. For goodness sake, you’ve just met the woman! What if she’s here to hide from the world too? “Sorry, that was presumptuous. Please forget I ever suggested it.”

“No,” Leah replied quickly, “it’s a good idea. We could make Pelican Town an art destination. Robin works with wood, and Elliott writes poetry. I’m sure other folks here have other hidden talents. But, well, I’d be crushed if nobody liked my sculptures. Let me think about it, okay?”

“Okay.” Isla’s eyes glided over the paintings. “Did you paint those too?”

“Yeh, I dabble a little. But sculpture’s my passion. Hot choc’s ready!” She set a steaming mug on the table, then lowered a bowl to the floor. Isla caught a glimpse of slivers of white fish, garnished with shavings of cheese, before Titus pounced on it, and they disappeared. “Wow, he’s really hungry.”

“I’m not sure how I’m going to feed him,” Isla remarked. “Does the general store sell pet food?”

Titus chirped disdainfully. Pet food was, clearly, not on his preferred menu.

“Fish then?”

“Talk to Willy. He runs the fish shop on the wharf,” Leah suggested. “He’s always fishing; he gives me the odd fish or two in exchange for forage. He might be interested in whatever crops you’re growing at the time.”

Titus jumped on the table and nudged Leah.

“Please don’t jump on the table,” Isla pleaded him. “It makes me look bad.”

The tip of his tail twitched, but he sprang down, then purred as Leah scratched his head. “So what brought you to Stardew Valley?” she asked.

Isla sipped the hot chocolate. It was very good, chocolaty, with a hint of spice. “I no longer wanted to live in the city,” she said, realizing suddenly that was entirely true. “The life there, it just felt claustrophobic, stifling, like I was following a set road because I felt obliged to, not because I wanted to.” Not to mention that everyone I knew looked at me with pity in their eyes. “Here, well, here I’ve virtually no money, I’m literally living off potatoes, parsnips and foraged vegetables, and I spend half the morning watering my crops, but... I feel free.”

Leah clasped Isla’s hand in her own. “I know exactly what you mean,” she said. “Because I felt the same. Like, the city was stifling my creativity. And, well, everyone seemed to want me to get a regular job, an office job – maybe work for Joja corp.” She shuddered. “So, I came here once on vacation, loved it – and decided to never leave.”

“My grandfather left me his farm,” Isla replied. “It’s a mess – but I love working with my hands. Seeing life sprout from the soil is just so much more rewarding than balancing accounts and inventories. That was what I used to do, back when...” Back when I was married.

“Here’s to fresh starts and new beginnings.” Leah held her mug of hot chocolate aloft.

“Fresh starts and new beginnings.” Isla held hers up, and they tapped them together, and drank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments would be appreciated. Thanks.  
> Hope if you've got this far, you're enjoying the story!


	14. Reaching Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After another day of work as a JojaSlave, Shane retires to the dock with his beer - and has an unexpected visitor or two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two-heart event: with a twist. Dialogue might be a bit innaccurate, as I mainly worked from memory and screenshots. I'm aware there are videos on YouTube, but in all three of my games, Shane and I are well past this stage in our friendships ;)

Shane stalked out of work, hands in his pocket, head down. Damn, he needed a drink. He needed a drink badly.

“Wait up.” 

Shane hesitated, and Sam jogged up beside him. Kid always looked so fresh and enthusiastic. 

“Don’t tell me you believe that ‘JojaCorp will propel the Ferngill Republic towards a more prosperous future’ bullshit?”

“Nah, of course not,” Sam replied. “But did you see that guy’s bow-tie, it was pretty sweet, wasn’t it? He looked like a Bond villain or something. Hey, do you think he’s a Gotoro spy?”

“What? Does he look like he’s from the Empire? No, he’s just some smarmy city-type who’s coming into our town, trying to tell us how we’ve been doing everything the wrong way and acting like he actually knows anything about us.”

“Woah.” Sam held his hands up in mock surrender. “Who pissed on your parade? I thought you were from the city and all yourself.”

“I am,” Shane replied. “But I lived here first. I played in the dirt, and got my hands muddy; I rode the horses and milked the cows.” And then... everything turned to shit and I had to move back to the city, but what was left of my world crumbled beneath me, and I had to come back here because there was nowhere else to go. “I just hate know-it-all bigwigs telling me how to suck eggs, that’s all.”

“Yeh, I know what you mean. But he’s kinda our boss, so he’s kinda got to know it all. Still, he’s gotta be better than the Overlord, don’t you think? What do you think happened to him anyway? It’s all a bit hush-hush.”

“They probably found the bodies in his basement,” Shane said.

“What, really?” Damn, the kid was gullible.

It was hard to think of Sam as anything but a kid, although he must be at least 24, by Shane’s reckoning, because he was about Abigail’s age. Why the two of them were still living with their respective parents, Shane didn’t know. He hadn’t talked to Abigail in almost a decade – despite Sam’s insistence that they all ‘hang out sometime’. The kid was like a bloody golden retriever, and not just because of his ridiculously styled blond hair (how much gel must he go through every morning?). Agreeable, friendly – from the start, he’d refused to be put off by Shane’s general assholery. 

“Probably not,” Shane replied. “It was probably something extremely boring, like he was embezzling money or some-such. Hey, are you going to he saloon? These ‘team meetings’ always make me want to drink myself into a stupor.” That was, of course, completely true, except Shane had to admit – to himself, but definitely not to Sam – every day at JojaMart made him want to drink himself into oblivion.

“Yeah, I’m meeting the gang there,” Sam replied. “Hey, do you wanna join us, maybe shoot a few holes? I’m sure Abi would be keen to catch up.”

“Nah,” Shane replied. Abigail might be keen to discuss things – people – from their shared past, but there were some memories that shouldn’t be awoken. She’d tried, when he first made his less-than-triumphant return to Pelican Town, to reconcile, to talk about Mona. But the pain had still been too raw – would always be too raw. And, unlike Sam, Abigail did know when to back down and leave him the hell alone. 

Or perhaps, deep in her heart, she still blamed him for what had happened. Mona had been his little sister, he was meant to protect her. But he’d failed her. He’d failed her so badly.

Dammit, he’d gone and stirred the memories again, and set the demons free. There was no way he could stand in the saloon tonight, no way he could drink cold beer, under Emily’s watchful eye and Clint’s jealous glare, with Abigail and her friends only a few steps away – so filled with life and spirit – knowing that Mona should be there with them, instead of buried in the hard, cold ground.

“I think I’ll go home instead,” he said.

*

“I met Miss Isla yesterday,” Jas informed him over the dinner. “She seems nice. Mister Ginger likes her too. He’s decided to live with her now.”

“Mister Ginger?” Shane was slightly startled at the stabbing kick those words gave his heart. Who was this Mister Ginger? When had he moved into town? He furiously struggled to think of anyone that fit that description. Or, Yoba, was Jas so lonely that she’d made up her own friends – and then given them away? If she thought Isla was lonely too, it was just the kind of thing she might do.

“Yeh,” she replied. “You know! He lived in that old tower to the west, and sometimes hunted mice in the barn.” She grinned. “He brought me one once, and it was still alive, so Marnie helped me nurse it back until it was healthy again.”

“Oh, right,” Shane realized. “You mean the cat!” He’d forgotten about the mouse. How had he forgotten? The days blurred together, buried in an alcoholic haze. 

“Yes, silly. Mister Ginger.”

“I’m glad she’s got company,” Marnie spoke up. She was frowning at Shane, as though she could see him scrabbling to tangle the strings of his memories back together. “Must be lonely, living on that farm all by herself.”

Scary too, Shane thought, but decided it was best not to mention the monsters – wasn’t even sure, in hindsight, that they were even real. “Yes,” he agreed. “I imagine so.”

“You should go and visit her again,” she suggested. She tried to make it sound casual, but Shane could hear the hope in her voice. Clearly, when she’d met Isla the other day, the woman had passed some sort of test. Either that, or his aunt was hoping they’d keep an eye on one another. “Emily’s invited some of us over, to prepare the eggs for the festival next Friday – you two should come!”

“Aunt Marnie,” he said, throwing up his hands in despair. “We’re not a couple! I just did her a favor, so she did me a favor. We’re friends. That’s all.” Friends – even that felt like a weird admission. Isla had never implied that she wanted a friendship with him, and why should she? Sure, she’d been kind to him, but kindness didn’t imply there was any kind of relationship – friendship or other.

“Then invite her as a friend?” Marnie suggested. “Look, Jas has been looking forward to it, haven’t you sweetie? And she can’t just hide in her house with her cat all the time – just like you shouldn’t hide in your room with your beer and your video games.”

“She wasn’t hiding,” Jas interrupted. “She was going for a walk with her cat friend, but she stopped to talk to me. I think she’s decided to stop hiding, and start making friends. Can I leave the table please? I’m nearly at the end of my book, and I think it’s going to be sad, so I’d like to read it to you, Uncle Shane, if that’s okay? Cos, being sad is easier when there’s someone there to hug the tears away.”

Shane stared at her. How could someone so young be so perceptive? He kissed her on the forehead and picked her up, carried her to bed, and tickled her until she giggled. She’d been right – the story did have a sad ending, and they both had tears in their eyes when the spider died.

Gods, imagine that, him, crying at the death of a spider. It was either masterful story-telling, or he was getting soft in his old age.

Tucked in and drifting off to sleep, he left her room, only to catch Marnie sneaking out the front door. She looked furtive. “I just thought I’d pop out, get a bit of fresh air,” she said. “It’s so stuffy in here.”

Shane rolled his eyes. “I know you’re heading off to meet up with Lewis,” he said. “You don’t need to hide it from me. It’s not like I’m going to tell anyone. Although I don’t understand why it’s such a secret anyway.”

“Neither do I,” Marnie whispered, the hint of moisture in her eyes. “But he insists. And he is the Mayor...”

“Fuck him.” Shane whispered, at his aunt’s disappearing back. “You deserve so much better.”

After checking that Jas was peacefully asleep, Shane hefted a six-pack from the fridge in his bedroom, and carried it out to the little dock near the ranch. He’d jumped off this dock as a kid, swum in the waters of the tiny pond and felt the fish nibble at his toes. They’d been other kids at the ranch then too: Jasper and his little brother Marcus, Katie and, of course, Mona. He wondered where the others were now. Well, Jasper, of course, was dead. And good fucking riddance, but what had become of Marcus and Katie? Lost in the system, no doubt. A system that took children in, chewed them up, and spat them out again.

He sat at the end of the dock, dangling his feet above the water, and cracked open one of the cans. The bitter taste was like elixir on his tongue, and he welcomed the burn of its touch and the numbing of his senses. He knew it was probably the worst way to keep the demons at bay, and would play havoc with his head in the morning, and probably his liver too, but did it really matter what happened to him? What he did to his body? 

Another sip, and he suddenly became aware that he was no longer alone. That large orange cat – Mister Ginger? – padded up, and sat down beside him.

“I thought you were living with Isla now,” he said. 

The cat yawned, showing its long canines and arching its whiskers forward. Then it glanced over its shoulder.

“He is,” Isla said, walking to the end of the dock and sitting down so the cat was between them. “But suddenly, for reasons I cannot quite fathom, he had a desperate need to go roaming off. Which was fine, except that he also insisted that I join him.” 

Shane always thought cats looked a bit smug, but this tuft-eared tom looked smugger than most. There was something distinctly haughty in the way it held itself.

“Would you like a beer?” Shane asked, indicating the carton.

Isla shrugged. “Sure, why not, it’s Friday night, after all. Isn’t it? It’s so hard to keep track of the days out here.” She accepted the proffered can, pulled the tab, and chugged it down in a most unladylike fashion.

He must’ve looked taken aback, because she blushed and stopped.

“Sorry,” she said, her voice cracking with embarrassment. “I just realized how thirsty I am.”

He laughed. “No, it’s not that. I can admire a woman who can drink as much as I do.”

She rose an eyebrow at him, well, both eyebrows actually, since she didn’t seem to have mastered the quirk. “Is that a challenge?”

“Hell no,” he said. “I’ve only got six cans. Well, four now, I guess.”

They drank in companionable silence for a while, although, much to his disappointment, Isla started sipping hers rather more genteelly, and nursed her second one while he finished his third, and then his fourth. Frogs sand and crickets chirped. Somewhere, distant, an owl hooted. The cat yawned and lay down, golden eyes focused on the water, at the silvery shapes that shimmered beneath the surface. 

Shane remembered a fairy tale, one of the dark, terrifying ones that kept small children awake late at night, where the souls of the drowned took the form of fish. Was that what these were? The souls of the drowned? Was Jasper down there, trapped forever in a piscian purgatory, paying for his sins? The darkness had grown deeper now, reaching depths never seen in the city: stars scattered across the dark blanket of the sky, the moon a narrow sliver.

“You ever feel like, no matter what that you’re gonna fail?” he said softly, as though he were afraid Isla might hear him. 

He heard her gasp, her whispered, “Yes.”

“Like you’re stuck in some miserable abyss and you’re so deep that you can’t even see the light of day?” he continued, glad that he could no longer see her face, just knew that she was listening, understanding. He realized that whilst he teetered on the edge of drunk – four beers was really pretty tame, compared to his usual quota – he was baring his soul to her, revealing some of the darkness. Perhaps she’d run. But perhaps, he thought – hoped – she might not. “I just feel like, no matter how hard I try... I’m not strong enough to climb out of that hole.”

Warmth, her hand over his. Her fingers brushing his knuckles. So soft, and gentle, like she were trying to pacify a frightened beast. Perhaps it was the darkness giving him courage, but he turned his hand over, so that they were palm to palm, and squeezed her. She squeezed back. Neither of them looked at each other, as though afraid that eye contact might break the connection, although from the corner of his eye, he could see she was staring downwards, at their clasped hands. They sat like that for a small part of eternity, then, with a “Mrrp”, the cat nudged their grip. Isla laughed and loosened her fingers, which Shane took that to mean that the moment was over. He withdrew his hand, stretching the cramp from his fingers – how long had they sat like that? Two people, trapped in their own holes, but connected by a tenuous bond.

“I better go,” he said. “Jas’s asleep and, well, I guess my liver will thank me in the morning.” He stood, staggering a little as he struggled to find equilibrium, but by his typical standards, he was barely tipsy. Isla stumbled a little, and he put out his hand to steady her. She laughed again, and clutched at his shoulder. 

“Goodnight,” she said. “Sleep well.” And started off, along the path back to her house.

He jogged after her. “But... What about your monsters? I should walk you home?”

She grinned at him. “Are you trying to get back into my bed?”

He was thankful the darkness hide what must be a spectacular blush. “No. But, but you’re drunk.”

She patted the sword hanging at her waist, and gestured to the cat at her feet. “I’ll be fine,” she said, “Titus is my defender, he’ll protect me.”

Was it Shane’s imagination, or did the cat seem larger, much larger? The size maybe, of a lynx. He would’ve pondered this further, had Isla not pressed her hands on his shoulder and stood on tiptoe, to whisper in his ear: “I’ll see you in the morning,” she whispered in his ear, her words like a caress that rushed straight down his spine and into his groin. “Call me,” he managed to croak. “When you get home. So I know you’re okay. Or just text me. Whatever, please.” She held out her phone, and he typed in his number and name. He insisted on walking with her to the property border. There was a path now, he saw, slashed through the brambles, and he could now see the chicken coop, bright white under the starlight.

Titus gave him a reassuring nudge, before trotting off at her side.

Shane watched until darkness swallowed them up, then stared at his phone until the text came through:   
Home safe xx   
Xx? Two kisses?   
He cradled the phone to his chest, and fell asleep with a smile on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't explore Marnie's relationship with Lewis very much in this story, but I'm contemplating with a sequel (or two).   
> My views are similar to Shane's on this one: Marnie really does deserve more.  
> There's also a slight nod to how I feel about the Clint/Emily situation in here.


	15. Cows and Chickens and Goats - oh my!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the coop almost repaired, it's time for Isla to secure her first livestock.

“Your friend’s here.” Marnie’s voice broke through the walls of slumber and, a heartbeat later, Shane heard the door creak open and a small excitable girl raced in.

“Miss Isla’s here to see you.” Jas successfully navigated the clothes and other detritus that littered the floor and propelled herself onto the bed. “Wake up.”

Shane groaned and stretched. Mornings were always the hardest although, this morning at least, his head didn’t ache nearly as much, and the sunlight didn’t drive its way straight into his brain. “What time is it?” he muttered.

“Nine-thirty,” Jas replied.

Too damned early for a Saturday morning. “Okay, I’m getting up. Can you, I dunno, entertain her, introduce her to the animals or something?”

“Oh yes! She can meet Daisy and Buttercup and Petunia!” Jas bounced off the bed. “What are you going to wear?”

“What?” Probably jeans and the first t-shirt he could grab.

“You should wear that nice blue shirt, the one with the buttons. It brings out the color in your eyes.” She must’ve heard Marnie say that once, his aunt had insisted he wear it to the Stardew Valley Fair last autumn. Like he was trying to impress anyone.

“She’s here for the chickens, not for me,” he replied, although he hoped that wasn’t entirely the case. “But yeah, okay, I’ll wear it. Now scram, I need some privacy.”

Jas studied him hard one final time, then darted from the room. “Miss Isla!” he heard her call. “He’s coming. But first, do you wanna meet Daisy the sheep? She’s really sweet.” 

After what was, for him, the world’s quickest shower and downing a mug of coffee, Shane strolled out to find the two standing beside the cow pen.

“...And now I’d like you to meet Ms Buttercup,” Jas said, indicating the large highland cow. “She’s the gentle giant of the ranch.” 

“She’s got such large horns.” Isla took a step back as the cow ambled over. Buttercup was huge, and for someone not used to cattle, must be extremely daunting.

“She’s real gentle, but you have to move slowly, cos she’s only got one eye so she scares easy.” Jas’s small hands flattened out Isla’s palm, and she set a carrot on it. “Talk quietly, so she knows where you are.”

“I can’t see any eyes at all.” Isla giggled nervously. Buttercup’s magnificent fringe could probably do with a trim. She flinched as the cow ambled closer, but stood her ground. She’d faced down monsters. She wasn’t going to be afraid of this gentle beast.

She still flinched when Buttercup blew air in her face, scenting her, then lowered her large but gentle lips to the offered hand, plucking up the proffered carrot with her teeth. Jas climbed up onto the fence, on Buttercup’s sighted side, to scratch behind her ears. She laughed as the cow snorted in her face. 

“Your animals are all a bit... different,” Isla said.

“It’s a rescue ranch,” Shane said, making Isla start and turn, smiling at the sight of him. He felt ridiculously over-dressed, given they would be handling the animals, but the shirt had obviously been the right decision. Jas flicked him a discrete thumbs-up. She might be reserved around strangers, but she was sure as hell canny. “Marnie takes in the abandoned and the –"

“– broken.” Isla finished for him. Gods, yes. Broken children, broken animals, Marnie had enough compassion for them all.

“Buttercup’s not broken,” Jas interjected. “She’s only missing an eye. She scratched it on a tree branch or a bit of wire or something, and her old owner didn’t get her treated, so it got infected.”

“My apologies,” Shane replied. He came forward and held out his hand, slowly, to the big cow. She turned her head, offering her cheek for a scratch. He obliged. “We rehabilitate and re-home the animals we can, but the ones that nobody wants? Well, they stay here.” True of the animals, and true of him. He’d tried to move on, to make a new path for himself and Jas, but he’d failed. Failed, and ended up right here, where it all began, and where some day, in the probably not-too-distant future, it would end. Buttercup snorted in his face, as though sensing his thoughts were heading for dark places, and he dragged his attention back to Isla. “Are you ready to meet the chickens now?” 

“Yes please,” she said. She had a beautiful smile, it really made the gold in her eyes sparkle. “How many do you think are best? Do chickens get lonely?”

“They do,” he replied.

“Cows get lonely too,” Jas declared. “I’m gonna stay with Buttercup for a bit, okay?”

“Okay kiddo.” Shane ruffled her hair, and she laughed, batting his hand away. She flicked him a grin and another thumbs up. Seriously, the kid was so damned intuitive. He lead Isla around the house, hand on her shoulder to gently steer her in the right direction, because she kept threatening to wander off. Marnie did have quite a menagerie. There was Daisy the three-legged sheep, of course, plus her three ovine friends, and Petunia, the ‘pygmy’ pig that wasn’t. Plus the Gruff family: Marnie had taken in Roland’s goats when the old man had left the valley, and their family dynasty had grown.

“So many animals!” Isla exclaimed. “Oh, look at that little black and white one. I ‘d forgotten baby goats played like puppies.”

The latest members of the Gruffs, twin kids, were in full romp mode, careening around each other and jumping on and off the large logs that littered their paddock. Seeing the delight in Isla’s eyes stirred something in Shane’s dark, cracked heart. They were adorable. And so was she. He brushed that thought aside. “They’re females,” he said. “We’ll need to find a new home for them, when they’re weaned.” He twitched a half-smile at her.

“Oh,” she said, at first sadly, then, “Oh,” as she realized what he was implying. “You really think?”

“Well, you’d need to get a barn sorted for them first, of course. And a paddock. Goats really aren’t as easy as you think, they’re way smarter than cows. Sly buggers too. Old Gramp Gruff there,” he gestured at the largest of the bucks, with his long curving horns and long tufted beard, “he figured out how to open the gate, got out, and ate all the washing. Including four sheets and twelve pairs of underwear. We only caught him because his horns got snagged on the line.”

Fuck, she had such a beautiful laugh.

“Anyway, here we are.” They had reached the big red barn. “Now, chickens are a social bird. So, we should probably start you with two. Our latest gang are Orpingtons, rescued from a breeding farm over in Grampleton.” A shudder passed down his spine at the thought. They’d been so tiny, their peeps for love so desperate, so forlorn. “One day old, and never felt a mother’s warmth. Do you know where they were going?”

Isla shook her head, biting her lip in empathy of the little blighters’ plight.

“JojaMart,” he spat out the word – it tasted foul on his tongue. Isla shuddered, hands clenching into fists. “For the Zuzu branches. They injected the eggs with dye, and were gonna sell the chicks as Spring Festival gifts. Not even pets. Just a cute little novelty gift that the kids would probably get bored with before they’d even fledged. Anyway, come in.” He pushed open the barn door, and guided Isla in, watching her face from the corner of his eye. The barn was quite large, the stalls along one side holding Marnie’s latest rescue. Isla gave a small shriek of delight, and ran towards the brown horse with a snow-white mane.

“His name’s Hercules,” Shane said, following her. She held out her hands and giggled as the horse blew air on them. “He wants a treat. Hang on.” He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a handful of slightly squished salmonberries. “Here.” Thank Yoba he’d thought to grab them from the fruit-bowl on the way past.

Isla laughed in delight as the horse suctioned them up, then sniffed her hair. “I think he likes me.”

Obviously, Shane thought. How could he not? “He loves people,” he said. “And is about as docile as they come. From a place that rented ponies, if you’ll believe it, for parties, for rides and things, I guess. They went bust, so he came here to live, at least until we find him a new place. He’s young and energetic – and needs a lot more attention than we can give him. He’d be great for Jas, but she’s scared of horses.” He shrugged. “She loves reading stories about them, and will happily pat a cow as big as a truck, but if I ever suggest she rides a pony?” He shook his head ruefully. “Anyway, we’re here for the chickens. Come on.”

“Oh, they’re so adorable!” Watching Isla making big puppy-dog eyes at all the animals was really Shane’s favorite part of today. He guessed, living in the city, she probably hadn’t had much contact with livestock, but she had visited here as a kid, hadn’t she? Surely she’d bottle-fed lambs and scattered corn for chickens... but maybe not? Roland had mostly kept goats and, if their descendants were anything to go by, they had been an ornery lot. They weren’t referred to as the Gruff family for nothing. 

Now, her enthusiasm had transferred to the chickens. There were about a dozen – all that the liberators had managed to rescue, and they were a rainbow of colors: red, blue, purple, one was even a horribly virulent shade of green. The poor things.

“They’re so colorful!” she exclaimed. “Will they stay that way?”

“No, thank Yoba,” Shane replied. It was terrible the way people fucked with nature. What was wrong with golden and white chickens? “It’ll disappear as their feathers come in – in a few weeks.”

“Well, it’ll make them easier to identify, I guess, until I get to know them properly,” she said. “Does it hurt them?”

“The dye? Probably not – JojaMart don’t want their chicks to die before they can profit from them. The process? No, it’s done while they’re still embryos. Doesn’t mean I like it though.” He scooped a handful of oats and mealworms from a bucket beneath the incubator; the larvae tickled the palm of his hands. “They love these,” he said, in respond to Isla’s grimace. “And it’s good protein.” 

He opened the latch and inserted his hand; the chicks peeped excitedly, running over to peck at his palm, racing to beat their fellows to the squirming grubs. “Which two do you want? They’re all girls. The boys... well, we were to late to save them.” The poor little buggers, gassed or macerated. But he couldn’t tell Isla that. It would likely break her heart. It damn near broke his.

Instead, he watched her face as she studied the chicks. One was particularly friendly, perched on his wrist, tiny claws scratching his skin. She’d probably choose that one. After a long moment, however, she pointed to the two chicks that hadn’t rushed over to feed. One, bright pink,the other, powder-blue. “Those two, please.”

“Why those? They’re not very friendly.”

She gave a small shrug. “Because their friendship and trust, will have to be earned,” she said. “They’re not shallow, nor begging for attention. They’re just happy, alone – but hopefully, sometime, someday, happier with company.” She met his gaze at those words, and her eyes held something – a promise? Hope?

Dammit. He was reading to much into her words, he knew it. She was here for the chickens, not for him! Gaze broken, attention back on the chicks. “What will you call them?” “I think I’ll keep with the tradition around here,” she said. “Orchid, for the pink one – and, what’s a blue flower?”

“Um, bluebells?” It was stupidly obvious, and also the first thing that had popped into his mind. “They’re not going to stay that color, you know.”

“I know,” she replied. “But I’ll remember.” She studied the blue chick; it was sullenly picking at the bits of fruit that littered the incubator’s floor. “Bluebell,” she mused, then pointed at the bird. “You know what, I’m going to call you Bluebell.”

It looked up at her raised hand, gave a startled ‘peep’ and ran to hide behind Orchid.

Shane laughed. “They’re too small to live in a coop yet,” he said. “They need to be kept warm all the time – if they were in a barn, like our breeding chooks are, they’d spend their time nestled under their mother’s wings. And she’d show them the best way to dig in the grass for worms, and what was good to eat and so forth. But these poor chicks were hatched in an incubator. They’ve never known a mother’s love.” You’re starting to babble, Shane, he scolded himself, shut up already.

“When should I take them?” Her enthusiasm made him smile. 

“When they start to feather up,” he said. “They won’t need the heat-lamp then, and the nights will be warmer too. Maybe four weeks?”

“Oh.” Her look of disappointment made something twist painfully inside his chest.

“You can come visit them,” he replied, and was rewarded with her smile. “Any time you like. It’s probably good for them to get used to you, gain their trust and all.” 

“I’d like that,” she said, studying her chosen chicks, now huddled together. “I’d like that very much indeed.”


	16. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isla's morning starts as a typical visit to the store, to sell her crops... but her past has returned to haunt her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: this chapter contains self harm/cutting.

“I’ve got potatoes, and parsnips, and kale,” Isla announced, setting each bundled on the counter in turn. The potatoes and parsnips were in sacks – they’d been some stock-piled in the back of the shed, and she’d bundled the kale together with twine. It was a decent haul.

Pierre examined each bag and weighed them in turn. “I’ll give you 1000g for the lot,” he said after a long moment. “Or 1100g, store credit.”

“Can I get it in strawberries?” she said. “I’ve been told you’ll have a shipment for the Egg Festival.”

“Sure can,” he said. “I’ll have eleven plants ready for you on–” The door swung open, and a fashionably dressed man strolled in. Suit, bow-tie, horn rim glasses...

“Fuck,” Isla whispered. What the hell was he doing here? She shot a petrified look at Pierre, but he paid her no heed, too busy glaring over his shoulder at the new customer. Well, visitor: Isla was fairly certain he didn’t intend to buy anything. He didn’t appear to have recognised her yet – and why would he? Last time he’d seen her, she’d been a broken wreck. Shooting an apologetic glance at Pierre, who didn’t appear to notice, she ducked behind one of the shelves.

“Good morning and welcome to Pierre’s,” Pierre declared through gritted teeth. “How can I help you?”

“Good morning!” the invader boomed in cheerful response. “Name’s Morris, I’m the new General Manager at your local JojaMart – and have I got a deal for you, the fine folk of Pelican Town!”

Isla found she had taken shelter beside Jodi, who regarded her quizzically. She pretended to be really interested in examining a bottle of olive oil, whilst keeping half an eye on Pierre – since from her position, she couldn’t see Morris at all.

“Yes, today – and today only – I am offering you, with this coupon, 50% off your next purchase at your friendly local JojaMart!”

“Can’t say ‘no’ to that offer,” Jodi muttered. “I’ve hungry boys to feed.” She scurried past Isla to accept a coupon, casting a furtive – and slightly guilty – look at Pierre. The shopkeeper’s face held an expression caught between horror and contempt. Isla wasn’t sure what expression her face showed, but her pulse raced so hard she thought her veins might burst, and she was biting her lip so hard she could taste blood. An aching vice gripped her heart and every breath was a struggle. 

Why was he here? Had he followed her?

It didn’t seem his way though, not when he’d been so desperate to erase her from his life. 

“You can’t come in here,” Pierre was muttering, but his protestations were lost among the excited clamor as the villagers clustered around Morris, like flies descending on a bloated corpse. 

She dropped to a crouch, rested her head on her knees.

Breathe Isla, Breathe. She couldn’t stay here, hiding in the aisle with the cooking products, but Morris stood between her and the door. 

I can’t face him. Not now – probably not ever. 

“What an asshole.” A hand fell on her shoulder, and fear spent a spasm jerking through her. “Sorry.” Abigail’s voice, soft in her ear. “Are you okay?”

“I... need to get out.” She sounded so pathetically weak. “Is there... a back door?”

Hands gentle upon her, guiding her, through a door labeled “PRIVATE” and into a residence. Polished wooden floorboards, air scented with pine needles. 

“Do you need to sit down? Can I get you something? A coffee?” A pause. “Something stronger?”

Isla laughed ruefully, and without humor. Her legs itched with the urge to run and hide. She shook her head. “Fresh air. Please.”

“Okay,” Abigail sounded doubtful that this was the right idea, but guided Isla down the hallway and into a well appointed kitchen. Something was cooking in the over, permeating the air with the delicious scent of roasting vegetables. It made Isla’s stomach roil. She thought she might be sick.

Memories echoed in her head. “...Your fault... You did this to him. You’ve ruined us – you’ve ruined everything.”

Dampness on her cheeks. She couldn’t let Abigail see her break down in this picture-perfect kitchen. She couldn’t throw up on this perfectly tiled floor. A door, there in the corner, to the outside! Past Abigail, into the small yard – and run!

Isla ran past a neat kitchen garden, herbs and vegetables laid out in tidy rows. Ran, stumbling through the veil of tears, up a stone staircase. Ran, along a winding gravel path and across a soft blanket of freshly mown grass. Ran, until she found herself in front of a broken, lonely building with boarded windows and creeping vines.

The community center – no one would find her here.

Around the back, crawled through the window, and into the dark, welcoming gloom, lit only by sunlight trickling through the broken windows. It didn’t take long to find a shattered bottle lying amongst the detritus on the floor. She sat on the edge of the empty fireplace. Her hands barely shook as she rolled back her sleeve, pressed the broken glass against the inside of her arm, and let it bite deep.

With the pain, the panic began to drain.

Here, finally, was something she could control. Her breathing steadied, the frantic flutter of her pulse began to slow. Isla began to feel the life around her. In the high eaves above, spiders weaved curtains of intricate webs. In the wall, a mouse suckled her newborn kits, their heartbeats loud against the stillness, their tiny lives a bright heat against the cold dark. A musical, high-pitched chirping, as something nudged her foot.

Isla glanced down, and saw a cheerful apple perched on her boot. A junimo! Its flesh was smooth and glossy, the exact shade of spring leaves. It tilted to one side, and waved a tiny stick-like arm at her.

“Hello,” she whispered. “Have you come to cheer me up?”

It made odd little up-and-down jerking movements, as though it were nodding with its entire body.

“Well, thank you.” She wiped the tears from her eyes. “It seems to be working.” She reached into her pocket, and found a slightly crumpled daffodil. “Are you hungry?” Would they eat flowers?

The junimo chirruped again, and moved towards her lowered fingers.

More chirping, and she saw others, beyond it, two of them: one the bright red of fresh blood, the other dandelion-yellow. When they realized she had seen them, they gave a louder “chirrup!” of surprise and darted off in different directions. Her little green friend accepted the flower, and bounced off, carrying it above its head. After a moment, Isla followed. Her panic had subsided now, into a more dull ache that was quietly simmering into anger. Morris had invaded her sanctuary, was trying to bring the Joja taint about this quaint country village. How dare he? 

She couldn’t face him, not yet, with the pain of the tiny, twisted body still raw and fresh, like a sweet smelling memory in her arms...

“Chirrup!” Leaf dragged her from the gaping abyss of her memories and back into the Now. Runes had scrawled on the floor, no, not runes, she realized now – the junimo script, barely visible in the feeble light shining through the boarded-up windows.

Leaf lowered the daffodil to the broken floorboards. Light danced in dust particles, swirling around the flower. For a moment, it glittered.

Then disappeared.

The runes on the floor began to glow, twisting and shifting before Isla’s eyes, forming letters, letters she could understand:

Dandelion. Horseradish. Leek.

A shopping list?

No, Isla realized – a wish list.


	17. True Colors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shane's life continues to drown his misery, whilst Isla begins to reach out and make some new friends.

“Hello Shane – it is Shane Cavanagh, correct?”

Shane looked up from the box of tinned beans, and glared into the smooth polished face of the new store manager. “Yes sir,” he muttered.

“Come to my office.” 

He groaned and rose, following the man. Morris was a few inches shorter than he, but everything about him exuded presence and charm. Shane wondered what he’d done now – was he to be reprimanded for snapping at Mr Mullner? The old man was as grouchy as they came. 

Morris held open the door for him, and gestured him into the small room. It had changed a bit in the Overlord’s absence. Gone were the photos of the family, the other trinkets and office bits that had cluttered the desk. Now, it was stark and barren, save for a scattering of papers. Shane chanced a glance at them. His file.

Attendance records. File notes.

Fuck.

“Sit,” Morris commanded, and Shane felt his legs obey. “I’ve been going over your files.”

No shit.

“And discovered that your record is rather... irregular. You’ve been late at least once every week, and scarcely a month goes by that hasn’t seen you take a sick day. Is there a problem, Mr Cavanagh?”

Of course there was a problem, this job was killing him, eating his soul away from the core – but Shane didn’t answer, just stared at his hands.

The fist slammed down hard on his desk set Shane jerking in surprise. “Answer me!”

“No, sir,” he muttered. “I just get sick a lot, I guess.”

“Well, don’t!” Morris growled. “And then there is that incident last week, with the elderly gentleman in the wheelchair.”

“He threw a can of soup at me,” Shane replied through gritted teeth. “Called me an irresponsible youth.” Because he’d passed him the wrong brand.

The fist again. “The customer,” Morris snarled, “is always right. Next time anyone throws a can at you, you catch it and laugh about it. Okay? Didn’t you use to be a line-back or something? Surely that means you’d know about teamwork and respect for authority.”

What authority? This pompous idiot’s? “Yes sir,” said through gritted teeth. 

“If I have to see you in here again, well, it’ll be the last time you work for this company. And next time you’re sick, you come to work – even if you have to drag your pestilent self here.”

He wouldn’t fire him, couldn’t fire him – barely anyone local wanted to work for Joja, most of them proclaimed to hate it – even though all of them shopped here at least twice a week (Joja might charge through the nose for seeds, but for ‘convenience’ products its prices couldn’t be beaten). And whilst this store might supply neighboring Grampleton and the various other villages scattered across Stardew Valley, but no-one in their right mind wanted to work here. It was why the Overlord had tolerated Shane’s ‘irregularities’ for so long; whether he liked it or not, Morris was stuck with him.

“May I go now?” he ventured. “The shelves won’t stack themselves.”

“One last question... I understand that someone has recently moved into the farm,” he said. “A young woman, name of Isla. Have you met her? Does she shop here?”

Shane stared at her. What the hell? “Do you know her?” he said, trying to hide the quaver – of rage – in his voice.

“We used to be friends, once,” Morris replied. “Good friends.” His voice oozed with sleazy charm, the nature of their ‘friendship’ clear.

“Then ask her yourself.” Shane stood without being invited to, and stormed from the room, his heart a turmoil of emotion. Anger warred with jealousy, muffled under a cloak of betrayal. 

He knew it was irrational to feel Isla had betrayed him, she had no reason to trust him; there was absolutely no obligation that she tell him about her boyfriend from the city – a boyfriend she had clearly come here to escape.

Had he hurt her? Was that why she always wore such ridiculously large shirts? Fuck, was that why she’s almost had a panic attack outside this goddamn JojaMart? His hands clenched into fists but, as much as he wanted to, he couldn’t go back in there and punch the smarmy-ass grin from Morris’s face. If he did, he’d lose Jas for sure – the authorities would make sure of that.

“Are you alright, man?” Sam paused in his brooming to ask, as Shane stormed past him and into the storeroom. 

“I hate the bastard,” he growled. 

Sam nodded his solidarity. “Yeah,” he said. “He’s a real A-hole.”

A single grunt was the only response Shane could muster. He began shifting and stacking boxes with reckless abandon, health and safety be damned. If he buggered his back, who would really care? It wasn’t as satisfying as punching someone – or something – but it would have to do, at least until the clock struck five pm and he could go to the saloon and get well and truly pissed.

* 

“It’s going to be so much fun,” Jasmine proclaimed. “I’m going to paint my ones in a rainbow of colors! They’ll be so bright, brighter even than the chicks! Everyone will be immediately able to see where they are. What color are you going to paint yours, Miss Isla?”

Isla smiled indulgently at the small girl skipping beside her. It was impossible to not absorb some of her enthusiastic energy. “Pink,” she replied, “like Orchid, with maybe a hint of Bluebell.” They’d visited the chicks before leaving the ranch.

“Do you think your chickens will lay colored eggs?” Jasmine asked. She skipped along the neat cobblestones, taking care not to step on any cracks. 

“I don’t think so,” Isla said. “And we’re here.”

They stood outside 2 Willow Lane, a neat wooden bungalow, with a sculpted sun smiling down at the from above the door. Isla felt the familiar nervousness begin to creep in. She’d always felt so awkward when meeting new people. Small talk did not come easily. Jasmine seemed equally nervous, but she still reached up to knock on the door, her small fist barely making a sound.

It swung open anyway, and a fey-looking lass greeted them. Her hair was bright-blue, cut in a pixie-bob that accentuated her elven features.

“Welcome!” she said, gesturing for them to enter. 

Jasmine seemed overcome with shyness – although she must surely know Emily, since she’d apparently invited them over – and clutched Isla’s arm, in a manner both heart-warming and awkward, since it made it harder for Isla to shuffle in. 

The living room was extremely tidy. A coffee table in the center had been draped in a plastic tablecloth, and an array of eggs sat, nestled in egg cartons, ready for painting. “Hi Jas,” the woman greeted the girl, kneeling down to look her in the eyes. “Are you ready to do some painting? Your uncle brought us the eggs last night. Seems like your chickens have been working real hard.”

Jasmine peeked from under Isla’s arm. “He’s going to come and help us,” she said. “When he’s finished work.”

“Glad to hear it.” She beamed, then turned her dazzling smile onto Isla. “I’m Emily,” she said, standing up. “I’m pleased to finally meet her.”

Isla was expecting a handshake, but received instead a quick hug. Seemed Emily was the touchy-feely type. She tried not to flinch. Emily must’ve sensed her discomfit, because she stepped back and clapped her hands. “Well, you girls are the first – goodness only knows where Haley is – but Abigail and Sam’ll be along soon. Here, I’ve got some artist smocks.” She tugged a large black bag out from behind the couch and drew out a long-sleeved tunic with a unicorn on the front. “This is for you, Jas.”

Jas grinned, her shyness beginning to evaporate.

“And for you.” Emily cast her gaze over Isla’s clothing. Isla suddenly felt super self-conscious of her over-sized shirt, which had clearly seen numerous washes and better days. “Well, I see you’ve dressed accordingly.”

Emily’s own artist smock had been carefully crafted from off-white fabric, with a Peter Pan collar and sea shells for buttons. Even the random blots of paint, probably from previous egg-painting evenings, looked to have been purposely applied with artistic intent.

“Would you like to choose your egg, Jas?” Emily asked. 

Jasmine nodded in excitement, and ran over to start sorting through the array. “They’re heavy,” she said. “Why are they heavy?”

“You can ask Sam that question,” Emily answered, then looked at Isla and rolled her eyes. “Last year we just boiled them and painted them, but the boys – that is to say, Sam and Vinny – got in an egg fight. Shells and scrambled egg everywhere. The Mayor wasn’t happy. So, this year, I’ve drained the yolks, and filled them with epoxy. There’s gonna be a lot of meringues and creme brûlée tomorrow! Plus,” and here she turned back to Jasmine, “if you paint your egg real pretty, we can varnish it and you can keep it forever!”

“I’m gonna paint a chicken on mine,” Jas declared. “For Uncle Shane. Since he loves chickens so much. What are you going to paint on yours, Miss Isla?”

Isla hadn’t really thought about it. “I might go for something a little abstract,” she replied.

Jasmine gave her a sage nod, as if she knew exactly what Isla meant – hell, maybe she did, who knew with kids nowadays? – picked up a paintbrush and set her egg carefully in the egg cup. She began painting with delicate brush strokes, brow furrowed in careful concentration.

The eggs really were unexpectedly heavy. Isla cast a quizzical gaze at Emily. “If there’s an egg fight this year,” she said. “These are gonna hurt.”

Emily shot her a sly grin. “Well, it would damn well serve them right, wouldn’t it?” She jumped up and put the stereo on, some sort of new-age-y pop music with nature sounds and lyrics in a foreign language. 

  
They were partway through painting their eggs when another knock sounded at the door.

“Uncle Shane!” Jasmine jumped up excitedly, but slumped back down as Abigail and a blond man wearing a JojaMart uniform entered. 

“Sorry kiddo.” The blond man lowered himself to sit on the cushion beside her. “Just me and Abi. But Vinny should be along soon.” Isla wanted to ask, but dare not show too much interest – and risk upsetting Jasmine – but didn’t Shane work at JojaMart too? Surely it was closed by now. So, where was he?

Abigail cast Isla a curious glance, probably wondering if she were still half-crazed. “How are you doing today?” she asked in a low voice.

“Better,” Isla replied. “Much better.” After meeting the junimo, she’d gone home and collapsed on her couch. She’d sobbed for about an hour – and bled a little bit more too – until Titus had jumped up beside her, nuzzled her cheek, licked away her tears, and fallen asleep on her chest, purring like a lawn mower. She hadn’t realized how comforting, and empathic, cats could be.

Or maybe Titus was just a little bit magical.

“Good,” Abigail replied. “I thought you were going to barf for a bit there.”

“Yeah, sorry, I guess I was just a bit off – too much sun, and hard work.” Give them the truth they want to hear; Isla had become far too practiced at feeding people more palatable half-truths.

“Hi,” said the blond man. “I’m Sam. You may have heard of me.”

Oh yes, the famous prankster. “Your reputation precedes you,” she replied, shooting him a quick smile. He was older than she had expected. Cute too, although a little too much ‘golden beach boy’ for her tastes. “Please don’t throw our eggs around.”

“You might break something,” Emily added. “Or someone.”

“These are jolly heavy.” He hefted one of the eggs, and mimicked tossing it at Abigail. She pretended to catch it. “Might make it harder for you to win this year?” He cast a conspiratorial glance at Isla. “Abi always wins the egg hunt,” he whispered. “I think she cheats.”

“How?” Abigail glared at him.

“Oh I don’t know,” he said, twitching his fingers in the air. “Maybe weird witchy magic.”

Abigail dipped her fingers in the water glass and flicked water at him. “I’ll show you witchy magic.”

Emily flinched. “We’re here to paint eggs, guys.”

“Witchy eggs?” Sam queried, his tone radiating innocence.

Before events could escalate further, the door opened, to admit a small, red-haired boy. “Jas!” he shouted excitedly. “You guys started without me.”

This, Isla realized, must be Vincent.

After a brief clamor, during which Isla felt almost forgotten, Emily managed to get the newcomers into art smocks, and the group finally settled down to paint their eggs. Jasmine kept casting furtive glances at the door, then at her watch. Isla could almost feel her thoughts. Where was Shane? He’d said he would be here.

The door opened, and both their hearts leaped – surely this was him! But no, it was a beautiful woman with golden-blond hair. She cast a haughty gaze over the assembly of paint-splattered, and laughing, adults and kids, tossed her hair over her shoulder and stalked elegantly across the room, disappearing through a door at the far side.

“My sister Haley,” Emily leaned over to whisper in Isla’s ear, then added, more loudly, “Isla, can you come and help me with something in the kitchen?”

“Um okay,” Isla replied. What was going on? She followed Emily into the kitchen, and frowned as Emily clicked the door shut. 

“I don’t think Shane’s coming,” Emily said quietly.

“What? But why wouldn’t he? He promised Jasmine!”

A sad shake of her head. “Shane’s ... not consistent with his behavior. He’s a good guy, don’t get me wrong, but well, he’s not exactly good at keeping his word about... certain things.”

Isla felt something clench in her chest. “Where is he?”

A heavy sigh. “My guess, the Stardrop Saloon. I work there most nights – took tonight off because Monday night is always pretty quiet, and I wanted to get these eggs painted. But, well, he’s there every night.” A pause. “And I mean every night. I try to keep an eye on him, make sure he doesn’t overdo it too much... but...” She paused, and studied Isla intently. Oh shit. “So he’d go to the pub instead of keeping a promise to his niece?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Anger flared in Isla. How dare he! Jasmine wanted him here so badly, she could practically taste it, and what was he doing? Drinking – and hell, possibly worse: what if he was hooking up with some bar babe floozy? “I’m going to get him,” Isla growled. She’d get him and drag him here by the scruff of his neck, if she had to. It was only seven pm – how pissed could he be?

Well, he’d be a different kind of pissed when she was done with him.

Emily flashed her an angelic grin, with a wicked hint of demon. “Go get him girl,” she said. “Back door’s this way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is one of my favourites.  
> I'll upload it in within a couple of days.


	18. A Reason to Believe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are some things Isla won't let Shane forget - like a promise to his God-daughter.

“Top her up, Gus.” Shane set the empty pint glass on the counter. A peaceful numbness had settled on his limbs – he no longer wanted to rip Morris apart and stomp him into the ground – and softened the edges of his vision, so that everything looked gentler and more subdued. It didn’t do much to dull the cold ache in his heart though. The bar was nearly empty. And where was Emily? Why wasn’t she here? Perhaps she was sick. He’d asked Gus, but Gus had just shrugged.

“Other commitments,” he’d said. Fellow was clearly distracted, thoughts elsewhere. Perhaps on Pam, the only other punter in the pub tonight. She was always here, practically lived here. Then again, how did Shane know that? Oh, that was right – because he lived here too! Trapped in his own little circle of purgatory: the hells of JojaMart, the numbing bliss of the Saloon. 

Something nagged at him – why wasn’t Emily here?

The door swung open. Emily? No, a petite angel. His petite angel. He couldn’t think like that, shouldn’t think like that. She wasn’t his. He’d never deserve her. Avenging angel, tonight. She looked pissed – and not in the way that he was. Fuck no. She looked like she wanted to rip someone’s head off and beat them to death with it. And she was heading right towards him.

Shit, what had he done?

“Shane,” she growled, her voice loud enough that both pairs of eyes – Pam’s rather slower, and slightly unfocused – turned towards them. Her finger jabbed him in the chest, right in his heart. Impaled him. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Drinking,” he managed. It was hard to focus on her face, her eyes blazing like fires. He blinked. She jabbed him again, then slapped him on the cheek.

Gus loomed near, ready to intervene if things turned violent. Ready to throw Shane out on his ass. Like Shane would raise a hand against her! He pressed his hand against the stinging patch.

“What was that for?”

“You know damn well what that was for,” Isla growled.

Behind them, Pam let out a ‘whoop!’ of support. What had he done? His dumb ignorance must have shown, because Isla let out a long, sad groan. “You forgot, didn’t you? Your memory is so fucked.” She turned from him and towards Gus. “Excuse me, bartender – sorry, we haven’t been introduced yet, but I need the strongest coffee you can manage. This drunken idiot has to come and paint eggs with his niece as soon as possible.” She practically shouted the last words.

Fuck.

He’d done it again.

He’d fucked up.

And let Jas down.

Gus set the coffee down on the counter beside him. “Better drink that, lad,” he said, casting a furtive glance at Isla. 

Under Isla’s steely gaze, Shane could do nothing but obey. The coffee was so thick, and so black, that it felt like choking down tar. “Are you trying to kill me?” he rasped. The coffee stirred uneasily in his gut.

“I’m trying to sober you up.”

“Coffee don’t work,” Pam called out helpfully. She saluted Isla with her glass. “Cheers for the entertainment, girl!”

Isla grabbed him by the collar of his Joja uniform and drew his head down to her level. “Shane, how drunk are you? How many pints have you had?”

He held up his thumb, then two fingers.

Gus coughed behind them. “Actually, four.”

Shane added another finger.

Isla let out a slow breath, but he wasn’t sure if it was one of relief or exasperation. “You. Are. Coming. With. Me.” She enunciated each word carefully and clearly, as though she were commanding a toddler. Her fingers closed about his arm, guiding him towards the door. Pam wolf-whistled as she guided him down the steps. He barely even stumbled. The outside air hit him with a blast of cold that snapped his senses back to something bordering on alert.

“Isla,” he whispered.

“Yes.” Yoba, she still sounded pissed.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not the one you need to apologise to.”

*

They marched in sullen silence. Isla was pleased to notice that Shane’s steps were somewhat steady – she’d clearly caught him before he was too far in the cups to come out. Gods, she hoped this was the right thing to do, drag him in to this friendly, happy crowd when he clearly preferred solitude. Still, Jas wanted him there, and he had promised her. She stood with him on the doorstep for a long moment, straightened his collar and pushed his unruly hair out of his eyes. 

“How pissed are you?” she asked.

“I’m okay,” he said. He didn’t slur his words, which was a good sign, right?

“Bit pissed with you though,” he admitted. “More pissed with myself.”

“Ready to go in there? Your daughter needs you.” She recognised the slip of her tongue the minute it came out, but whatever.

“I’m not her father,” he replied. His voice cracked a little, with emotion or alcohol? Isla wasn’t sure.

“You’re still the closest to a father figure that she has,” Isla replied. “Now, go in there and do your duty.”

“Fuck.” He ran his fingers through his hair, messing it up again. “I’m a god-awful father.” He gave a raw, hoarse bark of laughter, although Isla could find nothing funny in his words. What she could see, however, were the shadows that embraced him. It wasn’t the inebriation she had to worry about.

Without really thinking anything, except that she had to snap him out of his funk, she arched on her toes and pressed her lips against his cheek. He jolted as if she’s slapped him – perhaps that would’ve been a better option – his cheeks flushing red. 

Sometimes you just had to plaster on a happy mask and smile through the tears. “We all fuck up sometimes,” she told him. “But you can do it, Shane. I believe in you.” And, just at that moment, it looked like he believed in him too.

The look on Jasmine’s face was worth it. Her serious look of concentration split into a broad grin when the two of them walked through the door.

“Uncle Shane!” she cried, racing around the table and leaping into his arms. “You came!”

Isla had the sinking impression that this wasn’t the first time Shane had forgotten – and broken a promise in favour of the Saloon. Fuck, trust her to fall for the town drunk.

Was she falling? Well, ten minutes ago, when she was dragging his sad drunken-ass out of the pub, she wouldn’t have thought it. Didn’t think anything except wrath at the thought that he’d dash all this sweet girl’s hopes. But now, watching as he let Jasmine guide him around the table, where he admired her three painted eggs with genuine pride, and gasped in delight as she presented him with the chicken-painted one, Isla did feel a sort of sad, aching yearning. She disguised it by taking her seat at the table, and selecting another egg to paint. 

Emily nudged her, and shot her a pleased grin. “Would anyone like a hot drink?” she asked. “I’ve got coffee” – here she grinned at Shane, who had now picked up a paintbrush and was beginning to apply paint (slightly shakily) to his own egg, under Jasmine’s careful guidance – “and cocoa!”

“Why are you painting apples on yours?” Jasmine asked, leaning over the table to peer at Isla’s latest creation.

“They’re not apples,” Isla replied, without thinking. She’d moved from abstract into forms, and suddenly the forms had taken on a more familiar shape. “They’re junimo.” “Junimo!” the girl exclaimed. “I’ve got a coloring book of them. They look like happy apples.” 

“I know.” Isla added a third, dotting his eyes on carefully.

“They’re really cute. My book says they live in the forest and look after the plants and animals. I wish I could see one – but Uncle Shane says they’re not real. That they’re just make believe, like unicorns and fairies.”

Isla cast a guarded look at Shane. “And does your Uncle know everything?”

She laughed as Shane pulled a face. Thank Yoba he seemed in better spirits now, an exuberant eight-year old was probably as good an antidote to angst as a twenty-five pound feline.

“Do you believe in junimo?” Jasmine’s eyes were wide.

“I do,” Abigail said suddenly. “I’ve seen one.”

All eyes turned to her. “When!” Jas exclaimed. 

“A while ago now,” Abigail began. “When I was, not many years older than you are now, Jas. I was playing in the woods with my friend, Mona.” She cast a quick, questioning glance at Shane. He averted his eyes, seemed particularly focused on his painting. His shoulders were hunched. Curious. She seemed to take his silence as permission to continue. “We were pretending to be heroes of the valley – I was the warrior, and Mona was the wizard.”

“Witch,” Jas corrected. “Female wizards are called ‘witches’.”

“Mona didn’t want to be a witch,” Abigail said. “She thought that made her sound like she’d have green skin and warts and all – and besides, it was sexist. She wanted to be a wizard, and be all wise and mysterious.”

Jas nodded in understanding. 

“And we got wandered a bit further into Cindersap forest than we probably should have, and we got lost. It was also getting dark, and scary, and there were things moving in the trees.”

“What kind of things?” Vincent asked. “Monsters?”

“Maybe,” Abigail continued. She seemed to be enjoying her role as story-teller. “I thought I saw something like a creeping dark shadow, with eyes that glowed like tiny stars. But mostly, it was screeching bats and hooting owls. And probably a few scuttling animals like mice or possums. Well, the further we walked, the more lost we got, and the more lost we got, the more likely it seemed the shadows would grab us and devour us. Then something chirped up ahead – I thought it was some sort of nocturnal mammal, or maybe a bird, but it was a bright-colored little creature about the size – and shape – of an apple: a junimo. It waved at us, and beckoned for us to follow it. So we did – what else could we do? It led us out of the forest. Where we ran into Marnie, and Shane, and the others from the Ranch, who had all been out looking for us.” She cast another furtive glance at Shane, but he still refused to meet her gaze.

Instead, very quietly, he said, “It’s late, Jas, we should probably get you home to bed.”

“Aww, but I wanted to hear more stories about Mona,” Jasmine pouted. “You never talk about her or anything.”

Mona? Why did that name sound so familiar. She’d heard it before somewhere, surely?

“It’s ten-thirty,” he replied tiredly. “Come on – you want to have energy for the Egg Festival tomorrow, don’t you?” Now he looked at Abigail, and the glare he sent her was enough to send a shiver down Isla’s spine. It wasn’t hate, but it was something almost worst: disgust.

“He’s right,” Abigail muttered, drawing back into herself in a manner completely lacking in her usual confidence. She blinked a couple of times, seemed to regain composure, and flicked her amethyst curls over her shoulder. “And you’re really going to need a good night’s sleep if you wanna beat me at the Egg Hunt!” Her teasing grin seemed forced, and she was still watching Shane from the corner of her eye.

“I’m totally going to beat you,” Jasmine grinned back. She still seemed ready to argue about staying longer, but she was suddenly overcome by an extremely large yawn. 

“Come on kiddo.” Shane stood, put his hideous blue jacket on, and scooped Jasmine up in his arms. 

“I guess I am tired,” she admitted, resting her head on his shoulder, eyelids starting to droop. 

Shane paused beside Isla. “Thank you,” he breathed in her ear, the warmth of the words making her toes curl. Questions would have to wait.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she returned. “Sleep well.” This to both of them, but she couldn’t help adding a slightly flirtatious edge. Abigail frowned at her.

The door swung shut behind them. “Probably time we got you to bed too,” Sam said to Vincent. The frizzle-haired kid pouted, but he seemed to be struggling to stay awake. Isla stretched. “I’d better call it a night as well.” She had a lot to think about. There was clearly some sort of shared past between Abigail and Shane – but what? “Crops to water and chicks to feed, before the festival tomorrow.”

“Farming must be exhausting,” Abigail declared. “No wonder you look so tired all the time.”

Well, Isla wasn’t going to tell her about the monsters that rattled around her garden every night. Instead, she thanked Emily, who hugged her with more enthusiasm and, this time, Isla didn’t flinch. Must be getting used to this physical contact business.

“What’s with you and Shane?” Abigail jogged up behind her. “Are you guys dating or something?”

“No!” Isla replied, a little too fast. “We’re just friends. I guess. We keep an eye out for one another.”

“He’s totally hot for you.” Was there the faintest hint of wistfulness in Abigail’s tone? No, probably her imagination. “Did you see the way he kept looking at you?”

Isla hadn’t, she’d been too self conscious, and focused on painting her eggs. She shook her head, not sure she wanted to enter any sort of personal conversation with this overly curious almost-stranger.

“Hey, you managed to persuade him to leave the pub and hang out with us,” Abigail continued, not even slightly fazed by Isla’s lack of response. “I’m impressed; he hasn’t talked to me in nearly ten years. Ever since...” she let the sentence die. Probably to invoke Isla’s curiosity and elicit a response.

It very nearly worked, but Isla didn’t want to find out about Shane’s past from some local gossip. “Has he murdered anyone?” she asked.

Abigail looked flabbergasted. “Well, he really messed Jasper up, but the kid kinda deserved it–”

She would’ve said more, but Isla held up her hand to stop her. “Yes or no.”

“No. Well. I don’t think so.”

“Good,” Isla replied. “Anything else, and I’ll find out when,” – if – “he’s ready to tell me.”


	19. The Egg Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day of the Egg Hunt rolls around, but will Isla succesfully win the egg hunt? Or will fate have other ideas?

The dawn of another crisp spring day. It started with a light scattering of rain, which meant Isla didn’t need to water her beans. The legumes had twisted their way up and across the frame she’d erected from tree branches and twine. Soon they would bear fruit. Were beans fruit? Titus trotted out of the bushes, dragging a large, unruly bundle. He dropped it at her feet and ‘mirruped’ for attention.

“Ugh, Titus, where did you get that?” Isla crouched down to examine his kill.

It was one of the unnaturally large bats. She heard their wings beating the air each night, but thankfully none had pursued her since that first night, with a drunken Shane on her porch. Its wings spanned the length of her arm, from shoulder to wrist, and long razor-sharp teeth bristled from its jaw – could it physically close its mouth? – more like shark’s teeth than that of a flying insectivore. The eyes, now flat and dead, were as red as blood, and pupil-less. She wrapped it in a piece of sack-cloth and stuck it in the deep freeze, unsure what else to do with it. Perhaps someone here would be interested in dissecting it. Demetrius maybe? He was studying the soil – surely he’d be interested in animals corrupted by the Void?

“Thanks,” she said to the cat, scratching him between his ears, and listening to his rattling purr of pleasure. “I’m glad I’ve got you to protect me.”

Garden inspected, Isla retreated inside to examine her wardrobe. After Emily’s comment last night, she didn’t think her traditional attire of XL t-shirts and jeans or leggings were going to quite cut it. Not that she had many alternatives. After some poking, she unearthed a lemon-yellow blouse – good spring colors, and long-sleeved, thank Yoba – a remnant from her previous incarnation as a Joja-slave that had somehow survived the Great Wardrobe Purge. She paired it with her tidiest pair of jeans and studied herself in the mirror. Passably decent. At least she didn’t look like a farmer. She drew her hair back into a ponytail, and was about to secure it with a band when her cellphone started trilling. No-one rung her, did anyone even have her number? And where the hell was her phone? Naturally, it stopped ringing just as she found it. A moment later it bleeped as a message came through.

How are you?

No signature, but she knew the number – even though she’d removed it from her phone – and she knew the mannerisms: succinct, that was his way. But why the hell was he calling/texting her now? Had he seen her, the other day? Before she’d hidden from him, and fled like a frightened rabbit.

I’m sorry.

“Fuck you,” she screamed at the phone, even though he couldn’t hear her. How did you block someone’s number?

Can we talk?

Her hands shaking, she send back a response. NO.

I worry about you.

“Like hell you do.” She turned the phone off and flung it back onto the couch. Titus pounced on it, batted it down the side of the cushion. What if he, the ex, came to the Spring festival? No, she couldn’t let him win, couldn’t let fear rule her life. 

She was going to the festival, and she was going to have fun.

*

Shane stood, waiting rather less than patiently beside Pierre’s stall. The shopkeeper kept glaring at him, probably because he wasn’t buying anything. Either that, or he was scaring away customers. Shane didn’t particularly care if he pissed Pierre off. He and Abigail might no longer be friends, but that didn’t change the fact that her father had treated her like shit.

Jas barreled up, bouncing in excitement. She’d had too much sugar, the result of Gus’s egg-themed buffet: meringues, chocolate eggs, creme brûlée... “Vinny and I have found twelve eggs!” she said. “We’re totally gonna win the egg hunt.”

“Hope you left them where they were, kiddo?” he said. “Taking them early is cheating.” “Of course we did!” Jas pouted at him. 

“And scouting out their locations in advance isn’t?” Isla had somehow sneaked up beside them.

“Nah,” he replied. “It’s reconnaissance.” 

“We may have moved a couple though,” Vinny added, with a smirk.

Shane ruffled his already ruffled hair. “And that’s just cunning.”

He rose his eyes from the kids and faced Isla, letting out a slow breath of appreciation. That pale yellow blouse looked damned good on her, and gave him his first real glimpse of her, all lean muscle and tantalizing curves. He forced his eyes to focus on hers, and the sparkle of delight that had ignited in them. Was she appreciating his appearance as much as he was hers? Maybe – he’d let Jas select his wardrobe again – she seemed to have good taste – shaved, and spent almost an hour trying to gel his hair into some semblance of tidy.

Pierre coughed beside them. “Are you kids going to actually buy something, or just block my stall?”

Isla turned to him, which meant Shane could cast a sneaky glimpse at the contours of her backside. “I believe you’ve got some strawberry plants for me?”

*

“I’m so looking forward to having eggs of my own.” Isla bit into the chunk of scotch egg, trying not to moan in delight at the delicious concert of flavours. She was getting so very, very, tired of potatoes and leeks. 

She cast a glimpse at Shane out of the corner of her eye, and saw a small smile quirk on his lips. Hah. Dimples appeared when he smiled – she’d have to try and make him smile more often. And hadn’t he polished up nicely? That blue button-up shirt really suited him.

She took a long, warming sip of the eggnog – it wasn’t the right season for it, but it was definitely in theme – and almost choked as alcohol burned its way down her throat – someone had spiked it!

“Hello,” a voice greeted her from behind. Deep and smooth, oozing with charm. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of an introduction. Name’s Alex.”

Short-cropped, spiked hair, strong features, handsome in a polished-school-jock kind of way, Isla had seen Alex around town. Their first meeting, his gaze had flicked over her, but he’d evidently found her not worthy of his attention, and continued on past without acknowledgment. Which, she supposed, was better than the Emo-kid, Sebastian, who still glared at her with disdain every time they passed on the street. Now, of course, Shane was scowling at the both of them, but he disguised it by heaping his paper plate up with egg-related snacks and stalking off to spear them angrily with the environmentally-friendly bamboo fork. 

Isla wasn’t sure how she felt about being the center of two men’s attention, but she’d been challenged to restore the sense of community – and to do that she’d have to meet everyone. “Hi Alex, I’m Isla.”

“Ah yes, the farm-girl.” As if she hadn’t been the talk of the town for the last month. “Did you get new pants? You’re doing something right.”

What the fuck? Did he really think it was all right to talk to her like that? Her disgust must be transparent on her face, because he frowned at her.

“What did I say? That was a compliment.” His brow furrowed, as if he were struggling really hard to figure out what was wrong with his words.

“Objectifying women is a compliment?” she spat at him. “You didn’t even want to talk to me last week. Fuck you.” She shoved past him and stalked off to join Shane. He could barely disguise the laughter in his eyes. “Jerk,” she muttered.

Now Alex looked really perplexed, like, why would she go and stand next to the town’s loner drunk when she could associate with the buff jock?

Abigail, filling her plate on the far side of the table, caught her eyes and flicked her a thumbs up.

“Are you friends with Abigail?” Shane asked. 

Isla shrugged. “We’re friendly, but not friends. Not yet. We’ve talked a few times, that’s all. I don’t really know anyone here well enough to consider them my friend yet. Well, except maybe you.” She nudged his arm lightly with her elbow, gratified by the blush that bloomed across his cheeks.

“And me,” Jas piped up. “I’ll be your friend too, Miss Isla. If you want?”

“I’d be honored,” Isla replied. She fisted her hand and offered her little finger to Jasmine. “Pinky-shake on it?”

The girl solemnly interlocked her little finger with Isla’s. 

“Now it’s binding,” Isla grinned. “Friends forever!” She released her grip and high-fived Jasmine.

“Would you like me to pinky-promise it too?” Shane asked, corner of his lip twitching. 

“That won’t be necessary.” She arched on her toes and lightly kissed the dimple that appeared, slightly shocked at her own daring. Sure, she’d kissed him last night, but that had been to drag him from the abyss in his mind. This was, well, this was just unprecedented. And in public too. She felt her face flare hot and stepped away, trying to decide whether to apologize, flee or – Yoba forbid – kiss him again, and properly this time.

She was saved the choice by Lewis. The Mayor strolled into the center of the town square, stepped up on the low stage and declared that it was time for the Egg Hunt to begin.

Both kids raced to stand before the stage, and some of the adults joined them too. Sam and Abigail grinned at each other, the latter making a point of stretching her legs and flexing her muscles, as though she were about to race for the Olympics and not participating in a small-town egg hunt, where her main competitors were two small children. Penny, a red-haired young woman that Isla hadn’t spoken to yet, stood beside a darker girl with glasses. Alex had turned his lecherous gaze to Haley, who stood to one side, affecting boredom with proceedings. 

“Are you going to join them?” Isla asked.

Shane started as though she’d slapped him from somewhere deep in his thoughts. “Ah no,” he replied. “It’s for the kids.”

“Do you want Abigail to beat Jasmine? I’m gonna go help her.” She strolled over and took one of the empty baskets from the stage. Jasmine shot her an appreciative grin, clutching her own basket tightly to her chest.

“One... Two... Three!” The Mayor blew his whistle once, a long hard trill, and they were off!

Despite having short legs, Jasmine was fast, and she knew exactly where she was going, darting off to the left like a juggernaut. Abigail might have longer legs, but being taller, had further to stoop to pick up each egg. She charged to the right. Isla decided to head south, towards the river. She found the first egg easily enough, then saw another through a picket fence. It would take too long to run around it, so she tried to vault over it but, perhaps it was the spiked eggnog, or perhaps her general clumsiness, she caught her ankle and tumbled over it, crashing into the dirt.

Shit. Pain speared up her leg.

A stone slab rose up before her – if she’d been any taller, it would’ve cracked her head open. A gravestone. Through unbidden tears of pain, she could make out the words: “To our Mona.  
Mona Cavanagh 1994-2011.  
Sister. Mother. Friend.  
Always in our hearts.”  
Mother. Yoba, she’d been about 17 years old – just a kid. Strong hands on her shoulders. Shane.

“Are you all right?” His worry warmed in her ear. “Can you stand?”

“I’m not sure.” She made a valiant effort, blinking back the tears. Pain throbbed through her ankle, stabbing her with eye-watering agony when she tried to put any weight on it. “Fuck. I think I’ve broken my ankle.”

“Damn, we need to get you to Harvey.”

She began to laugh at that, a pain-filled, almost hysterical laugh that, once started, she struggled to stop. “Everyone keeps trying to get me to meet Harvey,” she gasped through the guffaws.

Shane looked at her like she was mad. “Well, he is the local doctor.” 

She winced when his hands closed on her forearm, and realized blood had soaked through the sleeve of her blouse. Shit, she didn’t want him to see that.

“You’re bleeding.”

Damn.

He half carried her from the graveyard. “Please,” she whispered. “I don’t want to make a scene.” Enough that she’d kissed him in front of everyone, the gossips – aka Abigail – would surely have a field day if he then carried her into the hospital.

With a nod of understanding, Shane settled her sideways along a park bench, so that her ankle was elevated. “I’ll get Harvey,” he breathed in her ear. 

She nodded, blinking the tears from her eyes. Tears, for the pain, for his kindness, and for her own damned stupidity.

The whistle blew, and the egg hunt was over. The clamor of excited voices were a relief – obviously no-one else had seen her ridiculous tumble. Shane came jogging back a few minutes later. “Harvey’s just getting some supplies,” he said. “And Marnie’ll look after Jas.” He crouched down beside the bench, and took her hand in his, fingertip tracing the blood that blossomed along her forearm. “I should look at that,” he said. “It could be serious.” His fingers moved to the buttoned cuff.

“No,” she whispered. “It’s okay. I’d rather you didn’t.”

Hurt crossed his face, like she’d slapped him. “Oh. Sorry.” He released her hand and pressed his hands to his stomach, twisting them as though he had to keep them busy somehow. “I see you found Mona.” Sadness glinted in his eyes.

“What?” She had, but what did that have to do with anything? Except... had Mona been his girlfriend? Her heart clenched at the thought – not that he’d had a girlfriend, because of course he must’ve – but that she’d been so young, and they’d been a baby...

“She was my sister,” he said. “My little sister.” He paused, studying his twisting hands. “Jas’s mother.”

Ah. Shit. “And her father?”

“Died before she was born.”

“You didn’t kill him, did you?” It was an attempt at humor, but Isla regretted it the moment she saw his face. “Sorry,” she muttered. “I know you didn’t. That was a crap joke.”

“I didn’t kill him,” Shane said quietly, the pain seeping through. “But I fucked him up pretty good. I don’t think she ever forgave me.” Fists clenched. “She died just before Jas’s first birthday. Postnatal depression, they said. Postnatal depression and a high-speed train.”

Tears danced in the corners of his eyes, and he furiously scrubbed them away, but Isla reached out, wrapped her arms around him, and drew him close.


	20. Little Secrets

“Are you sure you’re going to be all right?” Shane asked, for maybe the hundredth time, tucking one of the throw cushions between her head and the wall.

Isla snuggled down among the cushions, on her bed, her foot elevated in a bundle of its own. “I’ll be fine,” she said. “Please stop fussing. You’re like a mother hen.”

He rose an eyebrow at her. “So you’re the chicken expert now, are you?”

She threw the cushion at him. “I’ll be fine, as Harvey said, it’s not broken – just a bad sprain, and I just need to rest it for a few days. Then light duties for the next few weeks.” She absently scratched at the bandages on her arm. Harvey had sterilized the cuts, bound them in gauze, and asked no questions. She was almost certain he hadn’t believed her when she’d told them she’d scraped her arm on the tombstone. “I’m just worried about my strawberries.”

Abigail had dropped off the tray of seedlings about an hour ago, her eyes filled with questions. She’d left without answers; Shane had answered the door, taken the tray off her, thanked her, and all but shut the door in her face. “They’ll be okay for a few days,” he said. “They’re on the kitchen bench, you can water them there. As for the other plants, well, a few days won’t kill them – but I can stop by and water them, if you like.”

Isla reached out and squeezed his hand, less shy with physical contact now he’d bared a bit of his soul to her. “I’ve taken enough of your time,” she said. “We’ll be fine, won’t we Titus?” The cat rose his head – he had nestled himself up against her hip -- and ‘mirrup’ed his agreement. He looked a little disappointed, so she added, “I suppose by day three I will be chronically bored, so a bit of company probably wouldn’t go amiss.”

She was trying to hide the sense of dread, the sense that the ex had been right to worry about her. ‘You need someone to look after you, Isla,’ he’d said, soon after he’d proposed. ‘You have a tendency to leap before you look – and it’s up to me to make sure you don’t hurt yourself in the process.’ She’d tried to make it alone, and she’d failed. She’d been a fool to think it could be any other way. 

As if sensing where her thoughts were going – and maybe he could, because who knew, with cats? – Titus butted her with his head. She tickled his chin. “If you’re absolutely sure...”

“Positive,” she said, although she wasn’t in the slightest. “Go home, Jas will be waiting for her bedtime story, and you can tell her all about how you rescued the damsel in distress. Just, can you pass me my cellphone please? I think it’s down the side of the couch.”

He unearthed it and delivered it to her. “Call me if you need me. You’ve got my number.” Isla was starting to get the feeling that he rather enjoyed playing the gallant hero. Made sense – most guys did. She just wished she wasn’t the weak woman in need of saving. 

“Thanks. Goodnight. And watch out for the monsters.”

He laughed, but she fancied she saw a flicker of unease cross his face. He’d probably walk the long way home. “Um, well, goodnight then, I guess.” 

What, no kiss goodbye? she almost added, but decided better of it. It was probably the morphine talking. Fuck, the man was messed up – his little sister had committed suicide, for Yoba’s sake – he shouldn’t have to deal with her issues as well. So, she liked him. A lot. But so fucking what? He deserved someone with far less baggage than she. Someone like Abigail, perhaps. Or maybe Emily. They both seemed like smart, well-centered women. Shane backed out of the room, looking, for a moment, like there was something he wanted to say, but he decided better of it.

The house door swung open, then shut, and she was left alone with the cat and her thoughts.

*

“You’re such a fucking idiot,” Shane berated himself, leaning against her mailbox. Fuck. Why had he told her about Mona? He wasn’t sorry he had – the weight of that secret had been slowly crushing him – even if it meant he’d screwed up any chance he had with her, if he’d even had one to begin with. But still, the way she’d looked at him, had wrapped her arms around him and held him close, not judging his pain, seeking only to comfort him.

He should’ve kissed her. Dammit, she’d kissed him twice now – just little platonic pecks, her lips so soft upon his cheek.

But, he’d chickened out.

Hell, even chickens were braver than he. He’d seen what they’d done to a rat foolish enough to stumble into the barn. 

The farm was awfully dark now the sun had set, although the path shimmered faintly in the moonlight. She’d cobbled it, paved it with crushed stone. A path running between his house and hers, like she wanted to shorten the distance between them. Something rustled in the bushes off in the distance, and something plopped in the pond. Were these the monsters that she spoke of? Something moved, a shadow above blocking the moonlight, and he tensed, but it was just a large owl, flapping gracefully past on silent wings. 

He let out a relieved breath. He shouldn’t have let her tales get to him. 

Yoba, she’d almost had him believing the monsters were real – but she was from the city; countryside wildlife might seem like monsters to her. It was probably just raccoons, maybe foxes or coyotes. He quickened his pace anyway. The Sign of the Vessel hung above the coop door, a ward against the Void. Would it work? Would it keep her chickens safe? 

Would it keep her safe? Superstitious nonsense. 

A rattling of stones, and he cast a quick glance, saw a shape coalesce off the path, cobbled together from stones and weeds. He blinked a couple of times, unable to believe what was in front of his eyes. How much had he drunk? Two, three cups of the eggnog? No, it couldn’t be that, probably just a raccoon. Yes, that was it, a raccoon emerging from the thick tangle of weeds. Everything else… that was just an overactive imagination. Still, he fell into a jog, loping across the uneven ground, and didn’t stop until he’d reached the welcoming light of the ranch.

*

“Is Miss Isla okay?” Jas asked him. She was tucked up in bed with her favorite, rather worn, blue teddy bear, and a battered copy of ‘The Secret Garden’. But, bright-eyed and filled with questions, she didn’t look even remotely ready for sleep.

“She’s just hurt her ankle,” Shane explained, perching on the bed beside her. The bed was really too large, it made the girl seem so small and vulnerable – even if she’d made a valiant effort to fill up the extra space with toys and books. “Doctor said she needs to rest up for the next few days, then she’ll be good as new.”

Jas nodded, crawled over and curled up next to him. “Abigail won again.” 

“Sorry kiddo, we’ll help you win next year, okay?”

“It’s okay.” Ever diplomatic. “She won a giant chocolate egg and a straw hat. She gave the egg to me and Vinny. We split it in half. I let Vinny have the bigger half.”

“That was very kind of you.” Yoba, he loved this kid. He may have failed Mona, but he’d never, ever, let anything hurt her daughter.

“He smiles a lot,” she continued. “But he’s really sad inside. He misses his dad. I’m glad you didn’t have to go a fight the Go-toe-rue republic.”

“Me too.” He’d considered it, briefly, when the abyss yawned the deepest, and it would be better for Jas if he exited her life as a hero – but they’d never accept him. Not when they started digging into his family history. 

“Can you tell me a story?”

“Sure can. What would you like to hear?”

She blinked those dark blue eyes up at him. “Can you tell me about mom – about Mona?”

Her words stabbed him like a spear to the heart. He hated talking about Mona, held the memories of her – the guilt and the love – close to his heart, but something had loosened inside him, when he’d spilled a little of his despair to Isla. And Jas deserved to know a little about her mother.

But fuck, how did you talk to an almost nine-year old girl about her dead teenage mom?

“Your mother loved you very much,” he began. And he knew it was true, even with the tears, and even as she sunk deeper into the well of despair, Mona had loved her daughter. “How did she die?” Jas was no stranger to death – no kid raised on a farm ever was, even if she’d only lived here six months. 

“A terrible, tragic, accident.” Palatable half-truths, Isla had said. What palatable half-truths had she been forced to say? But, it was better not to dwell on the darkness, right? Jas deserved to see some of the light. “Would you like to hear a story about your mother, a happier story?”

“Yes please.”

He stroked her hair. “Once there was a little girl, and she had no mother, and no father, but that was okay, because she had a big brother who loved her very much...”


	21. Cabin Fever

There had been days, previous, when Isla had barely left the farm, and that hadn’t been too bad, because she’d always had the option – she could’ve gone for a walk in the woods, wandered into town, hell, even gone and explored the caves. But after two days of enforced confinement and she was starting to go stir-crazy. The strawberry plants were flourishing, they should really be planted out in the garden, even Titus seemed restless – and after she’d hopped over for the third time to either let him in or let him out, she’d taken to just leaving the door open and only closed it as night fell. The days were getting warmer, anyway, and the fresh air wafting in brought with it the crisp scent of spring and freedom.

She’d had quite a few visitors too, word must’ve got out about her accident – probably Abigail, since Harvey was sworn to confidentiality – and Leah had dropped by at lunchtime on the first day with cheese, wine – and some fish for Titus. They’d drank, and reminisced about how shit life in the city had been, and Isla had dared to think that maybe, just maybe, she’d made another new friend.

Emily had brought over a bunch of crystals on the second morning, and spouted on some well-meaning bullshit about their healing properties, which meant Isla now wore an ankle bracelet that included quartz (to encourage energy flow), tourmaline (to ward off dark energies and ease pain), and garnet (she’d been somewhat vague as to what magic it might weave, just shrugged and said, ‘it’ll help you freely express your soul.’ Whatever that meant.).

Shane was true to his word, and dropped by both nights, the first night, alone, with a six-pack of beer and a pizza from the Saloon, and watched with faint amusement dimpling his cheeks as Isla practically inhaled it. He’d also brought a DVD player (“from the Joja clearance bin, no-one’s much interested in obsolete tech anymore”) and they’d sat on her bed, watching Pixar movies until midnight, because, apparently, no-one but Jas owned any DVDs.

Isla hadn’t seen ‘Up’ before, and sobbed her heart out during the opening scene, which awoke some very painful memories.

She didn’t ask him about work, but, three beers in, he informed her the new manager was a jerk. “Nosy bastard too,” he added. “He asked about you.”

Isla must’ve jerked upright, because Shane shot her a worried look. “I didn’t tell him anything, don’t worry. I’m paid to stack shit and talk to customers, not to inform on my friends.” He looked at her quizzically. “I take it you know him?”

She nodded, but when she didn’t elaborate he didn’t probe further, just slotted another movie into the player.

He’d bared a little of his soul with her, he deserved to know about the skeletons in her closet, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to share them, not yet. What if they destroyed this friendly camaraderie they were tentatively discovering?

Instead, she laughed at the antics of Sulley and Mike, and wished the monsters in her own garden were as cute and lovable.

The second night, he’d brought more food, plus Jasmine and a selection of flat river stones. “We had so much fun painting the eggs,” Jasmine declared, “that I thought we could paint some rocks, then hide them around the town for people to find.” She spent the evening running through all the town folks, and trying to figure out what they might like painted on ‘their’ rocks. For someone quite shy, she seemed to know a lot about everyone. (“Pumpkins for Abigail – she loves Halloween. And for Alex, I’m gonna paint a gridball, cos he’s always kicking one around.”) 

“What are you going to paint for me?” Isla asked cheekily.

Jasmine had just rolled her eyes. “Well, that’s obvious.” And presented her with a fairly good rendition of a junimo.

Shane painted abstract symbols on his. “They’re runes of protection,” he muttered, when asked, looking furtive and embarrassed. “I asked Emily, and she lent me a book. Seemed delighted, like she’d finally converted me into believing that new age bull–” – a quick guilty glance at Jasmine – “err, codswallop. But, well, if they make you feel safer from the monsters in your garden.”

“Monsters?” He’d lowered his voice, but Jasmine apparently had excellent hearing. “What kind of monsters?”

“The scary kind,” Isla replied. “But don’t worry, Titus keeps me safe.”

Titus insisted on escorting them to the border of her farm, and Isla followed them with her heightened senses: three bright sparks – Jasmine, the brightest of all – against the darkness. She could sense the monsters too, one of those noxious slime creatures oozed its way around the ruins of the greenhouse, and something dark and shadowy, the antithesis of light, lurked in the wilderness corner. But none dared bother her guests. She could sense the owls and mice and other woodland creatures too, even the fish in the depths of the lake, their lives strange and dark and cold, so very cold.

Robin dropped by on the third day, bringing freshly baked bread, cheese, and strawberries – and her toolkit. “I’ve come to begin fixing up the barn.” Isla felt a flutter of panic. “But I can’t afford it, not yet.” Not until I can harvest my crops again.

The carpenter had just shrugged. “I’ve been told you’re going to need it soon. We can work out a repayment plan.” She nodded her head in the direction of the strawberry plants, now starting to extend their tendrils outside the pots. “My husband and daughter both love strawberries.”

She disappeared down the path, towards the barn, and Isla hobbled her way awkwardly down the stairs to begin harvesting the beans. A few days without watering didn’t seem to have hurt them too much, and the vines fairly bristled with legumes.

Hopefully she’d have another visitor later, someone who’d be happy to sell them to Pierre on her behalf.

By the time her basket was full, pain pulsated through her ankle. She sat on the porch and blinked tears of pain from her eyes. Breathe Isla, Breathe. How was she going to run a farm with an injured ankle? Shit, she still had to plant the strawberries, but the thought of walking to the shed to get the spade filled her with dread. She managed to crawl back inside. Now, where were the painkillers? She’d been reluctantly to take them – she hated taking anything stronger than aspirin – but dammit, she needed the morphine now. Tugged open the desk drawer and began rummaging through it. She’d slipped them in there, surely! Her fingers found something else, something cool and solid. The pendant.

She’d forgotten about it, and guilt crushed in on her. That poor woman, kidnapped and afraid, in the caves. Except she hadn’t been afraid, Isla realized, her fingers wrapped around the stone. Very faintly, like the distant whisper of a memory, she could now sense the woman’s excitement, her thrill at a forbidden dalliance in a strange and hostile place. Her fingers traced the carved letter, a ‘W’? No, she realized with a start, it could just as easily me an ‘M’.

“Mona,” she whispered, piecing together the jigsaw of the story. An underage teenager, desperately ‘in love’ with an older(?) boy. Isla knew nothing about Jasper, save that he had drowned. A teenager, drawn to the mines, drawn by the lure of the Void – but what teenager wasn’t?

An older brother, fiercely protective of his sister, ready to fight for her, hell, probably ready to kill for her. Abigail said he hadn’t killed Jasper, and he’d confirmed that – but there was no denying that Jasper was dead, and Shane carried a heavy burden of guilt. She knew she shouldn’t pry; some secrets were better left buried. But she found her phone anyway, turned it on and plugged it into the charger. 

Up pinged the last text from the ex, a text she’d been trying very hard to ignore:

How well do you know your new “friend”?

She clicked the attached link.


	22. The Ghost in the Machine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A third one tonight, as a bonus, because it is a short one, and - I hope - relatively sweet.  
> What does live on, after us, in the interwebs, when we are gone? What legacy do we leave behind?

"BODY FOUND IN WAKE OF FREAK FLOOD

A body, identified as missing teenager Jasper Thomas, has been found on Coral Beach, Pelican Town. The 17-year old ward of the State had been missing since the freak storm that devastated Stardew Valley on Tuesday.

Thomas and his girlfriend were last seen early on the Tuesday before the storm ravaged the tiny village of Pelican Town. Their guardian reported them both missing just after midnight. The girl, aged 15, was found early on Wednesday morning in a state of “distress and disorientation”. She claimed that she and Thomas had become separated during the storm, when flood waters engulfed the cave they had taken shelter within.

The girl’s 20-year old brother was initially taken for questioning, regarding a violent altercation between he and the deceased a week prior, but he was later released without charge. Police are no longer regarding Thomas’s death as suspicious and the case has been referred to the coroner.

The freak storm is said to have struck Stardew Valley at approximately 6pm on the night of the 13th and appeared to be centered on Pelican Town. With wind gusts exceeding 55 mph, and 3 inches of rain dumped over the six-hour period, river levels rose rapidly. Five buildings were destroyed, including the town’s community center, and four houses were evacuated. Two other people were reported missing, landowner and local legend, 65-year old Roland Alexander, and his friend, 67-year old Gilbert Werner. Both were located late on Wednesday afternoon, having sustained moderate injuries. Neighboring Grampleton escaped with minimal damage."

Isla stared at the article, at the photograph of a thin-faced, bespectacled boy who, although allegedly 16 when the photo was taken, was as smooth-cheeked as a child. This was Jasmine’s father? Thank Yoba that Mona and Shane had been given name suppression, although it certainly hadn’t taken the ex long to figure it out. Why had he sent this to her? Shane had been released without charge. But she knew why – it was to destabilize this new, independent, life she was making for herself. If he’d asked Shane about her, who else had he spoken to? All it would take would be a friendly, chatty local and he’d know everything about her. She groaned. Abigail or Sam, probably Sam, since he worked at the JojaMart, and seemed completely without guile. Still, it didn’t matter. She couldn’t let him win.

Shane had been released without charge, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t guilty.

And he had readily confessed to assaulting Jasper. 

It seemed impossible, however, to consider the man she’d seen so carefully handling tiny chicks, who was so damned gentle with his niece, who cried during a goddamn kid’s movie, was someone who could beat up – possibly even murder – a scrawny teenage boy.

Although that scrawny teenage boy had impregnated his under-age sister.

In a similar situation, and even knowing that Mona had consented to, at least, the physical part of proceedings, she wasn’t sure she wouldn’t also have punched Jasper. “Fuck you,” she screamed, her anger directed at Morris, even though there was no way he could see or hear her. How dare he come in here and try and screw up everything! 

Out of curiosity, and partly to distract herself, she searched up “Jasper Thomas Stardew Valley”. Most of the entries were articles rehashing the same news, but she also found a memorialized MyFace profile featuring the same photo and a dozen posts mourning the teenager.

One, from Mona Cavanagh dated the 25th May 2011, simply said: “It’ll be her first birthday soon. I wish you could’ve met her.” The profile photo showed a pretty, dark-haired girl, frowning seriously at the camera. She looked so much like a grown-up Jasmine that it made Isla’s heart ache. Her profile had not been memorialized, but was mostly locked to the public, the rest random memes and quizzes. She wondered if Shane even knew it existed. He didn’t seem the type to embrace social media. It felt weird, seeing her there, knowing she was dead, but getting a tiny glimpse into her soul. She’d liked cats, and appeared to enjoy Harry Potter: her Hogwarts House was Gryffinder, and her patronus was a stag.

Isla logged into her own profile, which had lain stagnant for five years. The ex hadn’t approved of social media (or to be precise, he hadn’t approved of her being on social media, since he still maintained several profiles of his own, ‘for business reasons’). ‘It’s like airing your dirty laundry in public,’ he’d said, ‘some things belong behind closed doors.’ She flinched as if stung at the wedding photos – one of her friends had uploaded them, tagged her in them – at the prettier, happier her. There were a few comments here and there, people expressing concern, worrying about her as her life, then her marriage, fell apart. Where were you when I needed you? she thought, tears stinging her eyes. You could’ve rung me. But no-one had. It was so much easier to leave a message, to let someone know that you cared, without having to take any of their pain upon yourself.

She made a comment on Mona’s last public entry, posted 29th May, 2011, an image that stated: “I’ve always been afraid of losing people I love. Sometimes I wonder, is there anyone out there afraid to lose me?”

_We never met, Mona, but I wanted to say – there are those here who love you, and miss you. And your daughter is smart & wise. And beautiful: inside & out._

Perhaps, somewhere out there in the ether, perhaps in Yoba’s light, Mona would read it, and know that she had never been forgotten.


	23. ... And Hercules in Between

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stuck on the farm with her sprained ankle, Isla is starting to get decidedly restless - then Marnie and Jasmine offer her a gift she can't refuse:  
> Freedom.

“Miss Isla!”

Isla drew herself up from the furnace she’d been constructing, using Clint’s blueprints and how-to videos on the internet for guidance. Thank Yoba, Stardew Valley had a cell tower. She’d cobbled together the parts from her Grandfather’s shed; the man had been an A-Grade hoarder. The test would come, of course, when she started trying to melt the copper ores in it.

Her face split into a broad grin, because Marnie and Jasmine came up the path, leading behind them a beautiful golden-brown pony. “Hercules!” she exclaimed.

Jasmine skipped forward excitedly. “Your barn’s fixed, right?”

“Well, yes.” It still needed a coat of paint, but that would have to wait until Isla could comfortably climb the ladder. Tradition demanded it had to be bright red. Now she understood why Robin had so carefully set up individual stalls. And why, last night, Shane had dropped by with some books from the library – then spent about an hour ‘tidying up’ the barn.

“Hercules is going to come and live with you for a while,” Jasmine said, quite seriously. 

Isla opened her mouth to protest – surely a horse like this must be worth a lot of money, a lot more than she could afford.

Anticipating her protest, Marnie held up her hand. “We’re about to get three new horses,” she said. “They’ve been badly neglected, and we’re going to need the space. Hercules might love people, but he doesn’t get on well with others of his kind. You’d be doing us a favor. Besides, he needs the exercise, and you need the freedom. Shane says you’ve been like a caged lioness.”

She had been a bit snappy lately. It wasn’t just her limited locomotion, it had also been the other weights, the new knowledge that gnawed at her. It had been a week since she’d followed that link, and she knew they needed to discuss it, but she had no idea how to broach the topic. So, instead they’d cooked (well, burned) popcorn in a pot on the stove, popped numerous cans of beer, watched every cartoon movie in Jasmine’s collection, and discussed everything from science to literature, whilst avoiding anything even slightly close to their personal lives.

It didn’t help that the ex was still texting her. She gotten one this morning: 

I hear you’re feeling better. I’m glad.

It was damned creepy.

“You’ve ridden before, yes?” Marnie’s question snapped Isla from her thoughts.

“Oh yes, but not for years.” Not since the early days on the farm.

“Good. Herc’s a softy, he’ll stand patiently while you mount him. You’ve got a mounting block?”

“I’ve got the front porch.” She’d have to lead him over there first, of course.

Jasmine pressed a carrot into Isla’s hand. She presented it to the beautiful horse, laughing as he blew air in her face and nibbled his way along the vegetable. 

“The saddle and tack came with him,” Marnie explained, as if to convince Isla that it was okay for her to take them. “Shane set up his feed hopper and water trough last night. He’s had breakfast this morning, but you’ll need to top it up in the evenings.” She glanced at the farm. “You’ve got a decent amount of pasture here too, so he should be set for spring at least, but we can drop off some hay bales too. Just make sure you keep the gates closed.”

Many of the internal fences had deteriorated to the point of no return, but the three main gates at least still worked, even if the bolts were rusted and the wood deteriorated. Another thing to replace, once she was fully mobile again.

“He’s pretty good with knowing what fences are for,” Marnie continued, “and probably won’t jump them, even though he could.”

“And he comes when you whistle!” Jasmine declared. She demonstrated, pursing her lips and making a thin, high-pitched sound. Hercules’s ears flicked and he glanced up at her, but he didn’t move.

“Let me try.” Isla hobbled a few steps away, then whistled. The horse’s ears flicked and he trotted towards her, nosing at her hands, searching for a reward.

“Oh yeah.” Jasmine skipped over and held up a chunk of carrot. He lipped it from her palm. “You’ll need to carry a lot of treats,” she declared. “He’s very food focused.”

Titus strutted along to examine the new arrival, and horse and cat studied each other for a long few moments. The horse’s ears flicked, and the cat’s tail twitched, then Hercules leaned down, Titus stood upright, and the two sniffed each other.

Jasmine stood on tiptoe to whisper in Isla’s ear. “Be careful of the monsters,” she said.

“I’ll shut him inside every night,” Isla promised solemnly. She’d asked Robin to nail another Sign of the Vessel above the barn door, and lined the ward-painted stones across the front. 

The girl giggled. “I didn’t mean for his sake,” she said. “Hercules is fierce. He once kicked a fox to death because it got too near the chickens!”

Marnie chuckled and straightened Jasmine’s hair. “Come on sweetheart,” she said. “We’d better get you to the library.”

“We’re learning arithmetic today,” Jasmine informed her. “Multiplication and division.”

“Excellent, maths is always useful,” Isla replied. Hercules nosed at her, sniffing her clothing and, probably, seeking further treats.

“It’s Friday, so I can stay up extra late tonight. Can Uncle Shane and I come over and play Rummy-O?” She’d borrowed the tile game from the library, and was surprisingly good at it.

“If he wants to,” Isla said. She waved her hand at the farm. “I’m not going far.”

“But you could,” Jasmine replied. “You’ve got Hercules now.”

Jasmine was right, she could. With a combination of bribery and whistling, she managed to coax Hercules over to the porch, and swing her leg over him. It had taken a bit longer to encourage him to do as she asked, but eventually he broke into an easy trot, heading south...

Back towards Marnie’s ranch.

“Wanting to go home buddy?” she asked him, leaning forward to scratch him behind the ears. The gate at the boundary was still open; Isla had seen no point in closing in, due to a lack of livestock. He trotted on through – past the ranch and into Cindersap Forest.

It felt amazing to be outside the farm again. Isla loved the farm she did, really, monsters notwithstanding, but Cindersap just felt so alive. The trees whispered to each other, their voices the sibilance of the wind rustling through their leaves, and squirrels and sparrows, and red-bellied robins hopped and trilled through their branches. She closed her eyes, inhaling deep the fresh sharpness of pine, and the lighter, sweeter fragrance of wild flowers. Hercules seemed to be enjoying himself too, he pranced through the forest, leaping falling logs and a couple of narrow tributaries. Seduced by the sense of freedom, Isla didn’t bother trying to dictate his path, and thus was quite surprised to find herself beside the rocky outcrop that held the wizard’s tower.

Hercules nickered a greeting, and a heartbeat later, Isla heard a voice.

“Hey, a horse! What are you doing here, big fellow?”

“Abigail?” The violet-haired girl stood at the base of the stairs, half-hidden behind a bush. “What are you doing here?”

“Isla? Is this your horse? Can I feed him?”

“Um, sure?”

Abigail drew something out of her pocket, it looked a bit like a carrot, except it was the color of dirt and a lot lumpier. “It’s a cave carrot,” she explained. “Full of starch, so they keep you full for longer. Taste like dirt though.”

Hercules didn’t seem to mind, delicately nibbling along the vegetable.

“Back when Pelican Town was a thriving mining town,” Abigail continued, “the miners planted them in the mines – kept them full for longer, gave them energy, and meant they could delve deeper. Not that you came here for a history lesson. Or a botany one.” She gave a half-hearted shrug.

“Why did you have one in your pocket?” Isla had to ask.

“For the goats,” she replied. “They love them. And goats are pretty cool creatures. I love their weird slit-pupiled eyes.” She sighed. “We – Mona and I – used to sneak over to your grandfather’s farm, you know, and feed them cave carrots. I miss her,” she added with a sigh. “And Shane won’t even talk to me. Hey, you guys are pretty close, right? Has he told you about her?”

“I know about Jasper,” Isla replied carefully. “And that, well, she was Jasmine’s mother.”

“She was my best friend.” Abigail blinked away tears. “We first met in school – back when there was an actual school here – it was the only time the ranch kids really hung out with the town kids.” She paused. “Are you okay with me talking about Shane and stuff now? I mean, I can stop if you like.”

“It’s okay,” Isla replied. “I think I’ve figured out most of it, anyway. The ranch kids were fosters, right? Marnie takes in broken animals – she used to take in broken children?”

“Well, I dunno if 'broken’s the word I’d have used,” Abigail replied, “but yeah, that’s right. The kids no-one else wanted. “ She glanced up at the tower. “Hey, you wanna go and grab a drink or something? I don’t think the wizard’s coming out today.”

“Do you know Rasmodius?” Isla asked, a little surprised.

“No.” Abigail gave her a shocked look. “You know his name?”

“Once.” She shivered at the memory. “He invited me over.”

“Mona used to pretend he was her father,” Abigail mused. “We met when we were six. My father, well, you’ve met him, you know what he’s like, so we used to fantasize about who our parents really were. She’d never known hers, so I guess she had more right to that than me.” She began to walk, back towards the town, and Hercules trotted alongside her, even without Isla urging him. Probably hopeful for more cave carrots.

“Anyway, I guess the weird mysterious man in the tower was always more interesting than some stubborn, single-minded businessman, right? I’m gonna be totally honest with you now,” she said, stopping suddenly and looking up at Isla. “Please don’t hate me for this, okay, because I know you and he are kinda a thing now...”

She paused, and Isla bit back the retort that she and Shane weren’t ‘a thing’ and that they were ‘just friends’ because she’d gone well past that stage weeks ago. She couldn’t stop the faint stir of jealousy, despite knowing that even if he and Abigail had once been a ‘thing’, they definitely weren’t any more.

“... well, I had the biggest crush on him. Like massive. Of course, he was Mona’s older, sexy brother. He’s still sexy, right?” She cast Isla a sidelong glance, her lip quirking into a smile, and Isla tried not to laugh. “So, he didn’t care about me. And I’m totally over it now. He cares about you though – a lot. You know that right?”

Isla buried her blush in the horse’s mane.

Abigail chortled with laughter. “And the kid’s cute. She’s a lot like Mona. Hey, you wanna go visit her?”

“Jasmine? She’s at school.”

“No, silly, Mona. She’s in the graveyard.”

“I know,” Isla replied wryly. “She tried to kill me.”

“Nah, she wouldn’t do that. She was just giving Shane an excuse to get close to you.”

“You think that?”

Abigail shrugged. “I saw your post on her MyFace. Damn near made me cry. Everyone else here seems to have forgotten her – those that ever knew her in the first place. I mean. Anyhow, I still send her messages there, sometimes. Pretend that maybe she can read what I’ve written.” A sad laugh. “She never writes back though.”

Hercules followed Abigail down Willow Lane, and waited patiently while she dismounted by the tiny graveyard. Abigail looped his reins over a tree branch, but he seemed happy enough to graze on the long grass that peeked through the fence.

“Hey Mona,” Abigail chirped. “I brought a friend today. She’s Shane’s latest squeeze.”

Isla winced a bit at ‘latest’ – how many others had there been?

“Nah, I’m kidding, she’s actually his one true love.” A teasing grin from the corner of her eye, laughing at Isla’s blush. “She’s cute. You’d like her. Jas loves her too. And she can see the junimo too.”

The junimo... that gave Isla an idea. She’d been meaning to fulfill their wish-list after the egg hunt – had collected the requested items – but her sprained ankle had put paid to that. She wasn’t restricted anymore, however.

“There’s something I need to do,” she said. “Help me back onto Hercules, and meet me outside the Community center in an hour. Bring a flashlight. Okay?”

Abigail looked intrigued. “Okay,” she agreed.


	24. The Junimo's Wish List

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short chapter.

Isla limped along the back wall of the community center, using its façade for support. Hercules would be fine – they’d been a small pasture next to the building, perhaps once an enclosed garden, and he was now safely secured, contentedly grazing.

“Can I help you at all?” Abigail asked, but Isla shook her head. Harvey had equipped her with a support boot. She could walk, albeit rather stiffly.

“Although, I might need some help getting inside,” she added, a little sheepishly, as they reached the window.

It took a bit of fumbling, to help her up and over the ledge, but eventually the sturdy support boot crunched down on the dried leaves and scattered debris that covered the floor. Isla’s torch skimmed over the floor, light glinting off a broken bottle, its razor-sharp edge encrusted brown with her blood. She winced and nudged it into the shadows. Hopefully Abigail wouldn’t see it, wouldn’t wonder. The junimo were here, tiny pinpoints of brightness among the dust. They were waiting for her. She stumbled a bit, the boot ungainly on the uneven floor. Abigail grabbed her arm, steadied her.

“Mona and I came in here once, after,” she said quietly, as though the chatter might dispel the sense of unease but scared someone – something – might hear. “Well, after the storm. Before the authorities took her away. They took all the ranch kids. Poor Marnie. She’d done her best, but, you know, teenagers. Mona heard they were coming, and she ran away, came to me. Suggested we escape together. I would’ve too, I loved her something fierce. Like a sister,” she added, as if Isla were making judgments. “We crawled in here to hide, were gonna jump on a train the next day, head to Zuzu or Yoba knows where. But it was dark and cold, and the rats kept scratching in the walls. And how were we, two teenage girls – one of us pregnant – gonna get by in the city? They found us, of course. I was grounded for a month – and poor Mona was dumped into some sort of care facility for pregnant teens. She wrote a couple of times, and we kept in touch on MyFace, but eventually the messages stopped. Then...”

She’d died. Something rustled and both women froze. 

“What was that?” Abigail whispered.

A musical chirp.

“That’s them,” Isla whispered back. “The junimo.” One hand on Abigail’s shoulder, she steadied herself and crouched down, easing her backpack to the floor. Her fingers traced the letters, the script, barely visible on the floor. Light flared. Abigail gasped in surprise.

“Magic,” she whispered. “What does it say?”

“Horseradish,” Isla read out. “In my backpack.”

Abigail fumbled with the straps, and a moment later pressed the lumpy root vegetable into Isla’s hand.

Isla set it atop the runes. Lights danced along it, then it was gone.

“Holy Yoba,” Abigail breathed.

“Dandelion,” Isla continued.

It too vanished into light and nothing.

“Leek.”

Both waited with baited breath as the last item was placed. As it too sparkled with light and vanished.

Chirruping surrounded them, as the junimo appeared in the faint luminescence of the script. They danced in excitement.

“Oh, they’re adorable!” Abigail put out her hand and one – the one Isla called Leaf – danced up it. “That tickles,” she giggles. “Wait, what’s happening?”

Something glittered atop the floor, coming slowly into focus. A small wrapped bundle. The junimo trio chirped and danced in excitement. 

“For me?” Isla asked. She took the bundle gently, fingers fumbling as she untied the natural fibers. The packaging was made of leaves, and contained a handful – a large handful – of seeds. “A gift from the forest, for me?”

Their cheerful jubilation confirmed it.

Isla wrapped the bundle back up, and placed it carefully into the bag. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Is there anything more I can fetch you?”

The trio clustered together, looking for all the word like they were whispering among themselves. Then they split apart and skipped back.

More words appeared: Parsnip. Green Bean. Cauliflower. Potato.

“What does it say?” Abigail asked in her ear.

Of course, she couldn’t read it. Isla translated.

“Oh, that sounds easy enough. You’ve got those right? Can we come back tomorrow?”

“Only if you help me plant all these seeds.” Isla had most of the requests sitting in her pantry already – she’d been intending to ask one of her visitors to drop them off at Pierre’s – the only thing she needed was the cauliflower, and a couple of them might be ready for harvesting tomorrow. Motion, from behind Abigail. One of the junimo – the blood-red one she thought of as Scarlet – crawled into Abigail’s pocket.

“Um, Abigail,” she whispered, gesturing. 

A moment later, Scarlet emerged, dragging behind itself a cave carrot. The others chirped in delight, as it was carried towards their circle and the script on the floor. Scarlet lowered it to the floor, and it flickered and vanished.

New words appeared:

Coconut. Cactus Fruit. Red Mushroom. 

Purple Mushroom. Morel.

“Where the hell am I going to get those?” Isla muttered, pulling her phone from her pocket and taking a photograph. The junimo shrunk back from the screen, appeared only as colored blurs in the final image.


	25. Fowl Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shane pays Isla a visit - making a special delivery - and gets more than he's bargained for.

Isla leaned heavily on her shovel, gazing in pride at the neat rows of crops. Who would’ve thought, when she was balancing columns and manipulating figures, that one day she would wind up standing in a field of plants she’d grown herself?

The new scarecrow stared crookedly back at her. She and Jasmine had constructed it together, stuffing him with dried weeds and strongly-scented herbs that apparently the mice didn’t like. He was dressed in an old plaid coat and a straw hat that they’d unearthed from a chest in the cellar. An old pillowcase formed his head, upon which Jasmine had painted a crooked smile and black beady eyes.

“Now the jolly crows will leave your strawberries alone,” Jasmine declared. “What are you going to call him?”

“I don’t know. I think you should give him a name, Jas.”

She pondered this for a long moment, absently scratching Titus’s head. “I think, maybe Ronald,” she said eventually. “After the scary clown.”

“The scary clown?”

“You know, with the big red lips and the yellow coveralls.”

Isla laughed. Damn, this child was awesome! “Oh right, that Ronald. Yeah, he’s pretty scary.”

“The man from the tower came out yesterday. I think he’s a witch.”

“Wizard,” Isla replied. “Did he talk to you?”

“He offered me an apple,” she said, “but I politely told him ‘no, I’m not supposed to take food from strangers.’ Also, I thought it might be poisoned.”

“Do you know where he went?”

“He didn’t go anywhere.” Jasmine popped a strawberry into her mouth. “He just walked to the gate at the bottom of your farm, and stared up through it. He also said, ‘I’m not a stranger, Jasmine Cavanagh.’ How did he know my name?” She pressed her head against Isla, and Isla smoothed back her hair. 

“He’s the wizard,” she said. “He knew my name too. Maybe because he’s magic?”

“He sounded sad, Miss Isla. I think he must get lonely in his tower. You should go and visit him sometime. I would – but Auntie Marnie and Uncle Shane say I must never go further than the tree by myself.” She skipped forward to pluck another strawberry. “Because Marnie can see me out the window.” 

“I’ve been to his tower,” Isla replied. “And it looks just like a wizard’s tower should look.”

“Wicked. Next time, can I come with you? Please?” She tickled Titus’s chin. “And Mister Ginger would like to see him again, wouldn’t you kitty?”

Titus nudged her chin with the top of her head. Isla was pretty sure the cat was still visiting the wizard’s tower, Marnie’s ranch and, from all reports, Leah’s cottage as well. She felt a faint tremor of unease too, although she tried not to let it show. Why was the wizard watching her? If he wanted to see her, why didn’t he send her another letter? Actually, perhaps he had. Isla regularly forgot to check the mailbox. Mostly her mail was delivered when people came to visit and helpfully emptied it for her. Shane had sent a couple of pizza coupons for the saloon (he’d found them in the back-room at work, apparently), Leah had delivered a recipe for salad, Robin had lost her ax and wanted to know if anyone had seen it – she’d have to keep an eye out for that next time she rode Hercules around Cindersap forest, provided no-one else found it and returned it to her before then. She’d also received a letter from her lawyer saying that the house in the city had sold, and that her cut of the final payout would be deposited into her account. That had been enough to pay for the barn repairs.

Footsteps crunched, and Shane strolled up the path, a large cardboard box tucked between chest and chin. Isla limped forward to help him with it. She was a lot more mobile now, but it would be a couple more weeks before she’d no longer have to wear the damned boot.

“They’re here!” Jasmine announced.

“Special delivery,” Shane confirmed, and thrust the box into her arms.

It wasn’t heavy, but Isla heard scratching feet and the weight tilted from side to side. “The chickens!” she exclaimed.

“Orchid and Bluebell, now all feathered up and ready for their new home.”

Isla felt a little guilty, she’d tried to visit them every few days, but tending her crops, delivering her produce to Pierre, and feeding and tending to Hercules, had left her too sore and exhausted to visit the ranch. “Thank you.” The box rocked. “I think they’re eager to explore their home.”

Jasmine darted ahead to open the coop door, and Isla staggered after, Shane guiding her with a hand between her shoulders. He tried to take the box back, but she grinned at him. “My chickens.” 

“As you wish,” he said, making her giggle. He rose an eyebrow at her, quizzically, and followed her into the coop.

It looked very homey – she and Jasmine had worked on it over the last week, while Shane was at work. A light layer of straw and sawdust covered the floor, with hay bales forming a circle in the center. They were for extra insulation and for the chickens to perch on. Shane filled the feeding trough, while Isla set the box on the center of the hay bale circuit. Quiet clucks emanated from within.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Shane crouched down beside her. “Let the girls out!”

Orchid, the more assertive of the two, flapped out from the open box almost immediately. She landed on the hay, skidded, and paused for a moment, turning her head to assess her new home. She wasn’t fully feathered yet, and the combination of feathers and fluffy down gave her a distinctly prehistoric look.

“She’s still pink!” Jasmine exclaimed.

The girl was right – whilst her feathers had grown in brown, there was a distinctly pinkish hue to them.

Another head appeared over the side, scrawny neck and bright blinking eyes. Bluebell scanned for danger. Her feathers had grown in a very pale gray, almost white, but they too still retained the faintest hint of blue. She hopped up to perch on the side of the box. Orchid clucked in reassurance, pecking at the ground. Jasmine scooped a handful of grain and scattered it about for them. Tentative clucks turned to excitement, which was all it took to encourage Bluebell out. The more timid hen fluttered to land beside her friend. “I’d recommend leaving them in the coop for the first week or so,” Shane said. “Let them get used to it, grow confidence, and feather up a bit more. Then, after that, you can let them into the outside run. I wouldn’t recommend letting them properly free-range until you can get their pasture fully fenced. And, you might like to have a word with your cat before then too.”

“Mister Ginger won’t hurt them,” Jasmine said with authority. “He’s Isla’s guardian. He’ll protect them from the monsters.” She had scooped more of the feed into her hand, and now offered it to the hens. After watching Orchid peck hungrily at it, Bluebell hastened to join her.

“Oh,” Jasmine giggled. “It tickles!”

Isla sat on the hay bale beside Shane and leaned against his shoulder. “You look tired,” she said. “Am I working you too hard?”

He shook his head and stared at his knees. He really did look tired, eyes darkened by shadows – and he’d been coming over later and later each evening. “It’s not you,” he said, running his fingers through his hair, mussing it up. “It’s the new boss. I kinda got on his radar – not surprising given my track record.” He didn’t elaborate, and Isla didn’t ask. Instead, she draped her arm over his shoulder and gently, if a little clumsily, rubbed his back. He leaned into her. “Anyway, it’s nothing I can’t handle, don’t sweat.”

“Tomorrow’s Sunday right?” It was so easy to lose track – when running a farm, every day was a workday. 

He nodded against her.

“Well,” she said, twisting so that she could stare into his eyes. Such dark blue, they appeared almost black in the low light. Such beautiful eyes, she could almost drown in them. “I don’t want to see you until lunchtime tomorrow, at the very earliest. You need to get some sleep.”

He groaned. “But seeing you makes everything better,” he mumbled. 

Isla’s heart leaped, but she tried to rein it down. “Come for lunch,” she whispered, her voice a little hoarse, leaning so close to him that their noses almost touched. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

And then, because she’d wanted to for such a long time, and she was pretty damn sure he’d wanted it too... 

Isla kissed him.

His lips were as full and soft and warm as she’d imagined they would be. At first, a little tentative, a little clumsy. Then his hands – warm and strong – cupped her head and his lips were upon hers with greedy passion, his stubble rough against her skin. She let out a small whimper, then remembered where they were – and more importantly, who was with them – and drew away, pressing her forehead against his. His breaths came ragged and raw, his pupils dilated.

“Tomorrow,” she whispered. Her own breathing sounded as rough as his.

“Fuck.” he whispered then turned away, sunk his head into his hands. “Holy Yoba, Isla.” His hands raked through his hair, making a real mess of it. “I don’t know what you’ve done to me. It’s like you’ve fucking bewitched me.”

She pressed her finger to her lips and gestured at Jas who, thankfully, had removed herself off into the corner and appeared to be playing with the chickens. “Language.” It had been too long since a man had actually seemed sexually interested in her, and she felt oddly pleased at the effect she was having. Oddly pleased, and extremely aroused. In fact, if it wasn’t for Jasmine, she probably would’ve stripped him off and mounted him right there on the hay bales.

But he deserved better than a literal romp in the hay.

“What about Jas?” he asked, sounding almost pained to be bringing it up. “Sunday is our day together.”

“Bring her,” she said, and he looked at her, bewildered. “We’ll have a picnic in Cindersap Forest then explore or fish, whatever she wants to do. You guys can go home for dinner – and after dinner...” She leaned forward and whispered in his ear, shocked at her own daring. “You can come visit me for dessert.”

“Shit Isla,” he whispered. “Tomorrow’s gonna feel like a helluva long day.”

“Good night Shane,” she said, staggering to her feet, her heart fluttering with excitement. When had she become such a tease? But hell, it felt good. “Sleep well.” She paused, glanced sideways at Jas – kid was very discreetly still playing with the chickens, she was either extremely focused or perceptively giving them time to be together. “And don’t think about sneaking back tonight,” she whispered. “Trust me, you’re going to need your energy for tomorrow.” She kissed him again, pressing a somewhat more chaste kiss against his lips, whispered again, “Tomorrow.”

*

Fuck, why had she gone and awoken her libido? She’d tried a cold shower, then tried to read a book – but the damned thing had turned out to be romantic. Finally, she’d tossed and turned for what felt like forever between trying to keep her injured ankle elevated and comfortable, and trying to appease the tendril of craving that had uncurled in her loins and now burned like an unquenchable flame.

With a groan – not of pleasure – she leaned over and grabbed her phone. Surely the internet would prove the digital equivalent of a cold shower, right? The phone showed a new text, and her heart gave a small leap – had Shane messaged her?

But it wasn’t, it was from him. The ex.

You’re playing with fire, Isla. You need me to protect you.

“Shit,” she whispered. Did he know? Had he been watching her somehow?

No, it had to be coincidence, surely.

Hands shaking so hard she could barely tap the right point on the screen, she opened the video link. Please don’t let it be horribly voyeuristic, she thought. 

Temporary relief when it opened to a grainy, low-grade video on VueTube, not her coop, but a larger barn – although the barn looked oddly familiar. Confusion when she saw the media’s date stamp read: September 30th, 2009.

The caption said, simply: “kid gets a$$ kicked”. 

A few chickens scratched around on the floor, pecking near a prone figure. He crawled onto his hands and knees, and began scrabbling through the hay, searching – with growing panic – for something, then paused briefly in relief as he found it.

Someone stepped in front of the camera, partly blocking the view. The kid looked up. His hair was slightly too long to be fashionable, but too short to be rebellious. “Jasper,” Isla whispered. 

A look of fear crossed Jasper’s narrow, ferret-like face and he scrabbled back. 

“You bastard.” The looming figure stepped towards the fallen kid, and Isla felt her heart skip a beat. The voice was familiar, even if the tone was not. The person filming gave a small gasp, but made no attempt to either restrain Shane or run to help Jasper. Instead, the camera shook as they moved around to get a better view.

Jasper, crouching, clutching his glasses, held up his hands in surrender.

And Shane kicked him, first in the stomach, then, when he curled himself in a ball, in the lower back. The chickens fluttered away.

The camera zoomed in to capture Shane’s face, twisted into a snarl so feral that ice flooded Isla’s vein. Then a voice called out, “Stop! You’ll kill him!”

Worry replaced wrath, and the camera zoomed out again to capture a small dark-haired girl – Mona! – running into view. She threw herself at Shane. He wrapped his arms around her, and hugged her close to his chest.

The video ended, flicking back to the beginning, with Jasper crouched on the ground.

There was no description, no comments, only a handful of views, and the user PeliTiger99 hadn’t uploaded any other videos. With virtually nothing to connect it to Pelican Town, the ex must have done some serious digging to unearth it. But that one frame, that expression of absolute wrath, stabbed deep into Isla’s heart. That was the face of someone who, had he had not been restrained by someone he loved, could have willingly kicked Jasper to death.


	26. Open Your Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isla's ex-husband seems determined to destroy this new life she's building for herself, but maybe it's time for her to open up and trust others.

“What are you doing? You shouldn’t be up a ladder, not with your ankle!”

Isla stared down at Abigail in surprise. How had the woman managed to creep in on her like that? She glanced at Orchid and Bluebell, happily preening side by side on one of the hay bales.

“Why are you here?” she retorted. She hadn’t slept well last night, despite the amazing anti-aphrodisiac properties of that damn video. Every time she closed her eyes, she could see that horrible, vicious expression – and, of course, there was also the worry that her fucked-up ex was stalking her.

“I was bored,” Abigail replied. “Plus, half the town comes to our shrine on Sundays to pay homage to Yoba, and I can’t be bothered with that sort of zealous shit.” She stared up at the ceiling. “I mean, if Yoba’s watching over us, he’s kinda everywhere, right? Anyhow, whatcha doing?”

Isla clambered down the ladder. Pins stabbed in her chest. What if? “Have you met the new manager of the JojaMart?”

A look of utter bewilderment. “You mean the pompous a-hole that charged into my father’s store and stole his customers?”

She was either an excellent liar, or not spying for Morris. Isla didn’t yet know her well enough to tell. “Yes, that’s that one.”

“Hell no. My dad would string me by the ankles if I so much as spoke to him politely.” She stroked her chin, as though considering it. “Actually, come to think of it, it might be almost worthwhile, just to piss the old man off.” Then she glanced at Isla’s face and visibly blanched. “Sorry. I was just joking. You know the bastard then?”

She nodded, filled with the desire to tell someone, anyone. But Abigail? Surely Leah would be a better choice, Leah understand evil ex’s.

But Leah wasn’t here.

“Please promise you won’t tell everyone this, Abigail,” Isla implored her.

Abigail’s usually playful expression turned serious. “Shit Isla, I can keep a secret. I know I sometimes come across kinda scatterbrained at times, but... well... You can trust me, okay? I haven’t told anybody about our junimo friends.”

No, she hadn’t. “I’m sorry, I’m just a bit ... fragile right now. I’ll tell you why.” Isla let out a shaky sigh and hobbled over to sit on one of the hay bales. The chickens squawked and studied her, possibly hoping for treats.

Abigail drew herself up onto a hay bale opposite and sat cross-legged. She fished something out of her pocket and scattered it on the floor.

“Abigail, why are there breadcrumbs in your pocket?” 

She shrugged. “We had croissants for breakfast.”

The hens were delighted.

Abigail reached out and grasped Isla’s hands in her own. “What’s wrong, Isla?”

Tears blinked, unbidden, to Isla’s eyes. “Morris Blake – the new Joja manager – and I have... a history.” She swallowed hard. To tell, or not to tell? The secrets had bubbled in her for so long; she needed to confide in someone. “We were married.”

“Shit. But he’s such an arrogant dickhead. I thought you had good taste.” Abigail exaggerated expression of disapproval elicited an unexpected smile.

“He wasn’t always like that.” Isla gave a sad, rueful laugh. “Believe it or not, he can turn on the charm when he wants to.” 

Abigail rose her eyebrows incredulously. “Really?”

“Really.” Isla nodded. “We met at a JojaCorp Team Building Function – of all the stupid places. My mother catered it, and dragged me into it when one of her waitresses rage-quit, last minute. She’s a freaking hard taskmaster, my mother, so I can’t exactly say I blame the waitress! Anyhow, I ended up serving his table.” She swallowed back the nausea that roiled in her gut. “He flirted with me all evening, then slipped me a tip with his business card folded in it.”

Abigail snorted a laugh. “Pretentious ass.”

“Indeed,” Isla agreed. “My mother urged me to ring him; I was unemployed at the time, and she figured if I could get my foot into the Joja door, I’d be set for life. Anyway, it’s impossible to say ‘no’ to my mother, so I rang him. A month later, I got a job in accounts. A year later, we were engaged to be married.” She groaned, blinked back the tears. Shit, you’re starting to babble Isla. No need to give her the sordid details... “And three years later, everything turned to shit... and I moved here.”

“Did he hurt you?” Abigail squeezed Isla’s hands. “Did you come here to escape him? And he followed you?”

“I don’t know. I mean, he didn’t hurt me – not really – but I...” The tears trickled down her cheeks, no longer able to be blinked away. “I came here to start afresh and everything was going so well, and I was beginning to be happy and make friends and maybe even fall in love – but now he’s here and he won’t stop sending me messages, and he’s trying to ruin everything.” The words flowed like the tears – uncontrollable.

“Oh Isla.” Abigail leaned forward, wrapped her arms around her, and Isla wept, unashamedly, onto her shoulder. “What kind of messages?”

Abigail had been Mona’s friend – Shane’s friend too – the video wouldn’t be a shock to her – hell, she may have even been there. What if she’d been the one filming? Only one way to find out. Isla extracted the phone from her pocket, holding it gingerly between her fingers, as though it might explode. She opened the VueTube page, and handed it to Abigail. “Watch,” she said.

Abigail watched it once, then watched it again, biting her lip and wincing both times.

“Fuck,” she whispered. 

“You didn’t upload it?”

“Hell no! Shane and Mona were my friends.” She twirled her hair round her fingers. “I bet it was Katie. She hated Jasper; he pinched her butt once, and she almost ripped his arm off. Marnie used to call her ‘Katie-kat’, but after that we all called her ‘tiger’.”

“But... Shane?” That expression.

Abigail shrugged. “It doesn’t look good, I know – but you don’t know what happened before – Jasper... well, he seemed nice enough at first – if a bit dorky – but that changed after... after they hooked up, and started exploring the mines.” She shook her head. “That doesn’t matter anymore, I’m more worried about this Morris-guy stalking you. Do you think he’s bugged the coop? I’ll help you look, if you like.”

“Please.”

It took ages, searching the walls and the equipment, even the hay bales, the chickens following them inquisitively. But in the end, they found nothing.

“Shit,” Abigail exclaimed suddenly. “It’s half-eleven. I’d better go home for lunch. Sam and his family always come over on Sundays. Hey, do you think Sam might be our informant? He’s as sweet as a a sugar-mouse, and wouldn’t hurt a fly, but–”

“I’ve talked to him maybe a handful of times,” Isla pointed out. “I’m not sure he’d have anything to inform about.”

“I dunno about that,” Abigail said. “You’ve kinda been the talk of the town since you arrived here. And Emily commented on Friday that it was weird – weird-good, I mean – that Shane no longer spent every night propping up the bar. Pam seemed less happy though. She’s Penny’s mom, and she must be about fifty, but she’s had her eyes on Shane for, like, forever. Ugh.” She made a gagging motion, then grinned, eyed alight with a new idea. “Hey, do you want to come, join us for lunch? Mom always makes enough to feed an army.”

“I can’t,” Isla replied, feeling faintly relieved to have an excuse. Abigail was pretty awesome, but she was also completely exhausting. Whilst Isla and Shane could sit for hours, content in each other’s quiet company, Abigail seemed to think silence was offensive and had to be filled. “I’m meeting Jas and Shane for lunch.”

“Oh,” she replied, sounding faintly disappointed. “Next week, maybe?”

“Maybe. If you get the chance,” Isla said, hesitantly, “Could you maybe ask Sam? If he’s been talking to Morris, I mean?” Gods, she hated saying the ex’s name aloud. Hated even given him the benefit of an identity aside from ‘the ex’.

Abigail gave her a hard, spontaneous hug. “And you go for it with Shane,” she said. “Forget that bloody video. You can’t let the bastard win.”

It felt good to have Abigail fighting by her side.


	27. Falling to Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shane is brought before his new manager again, and learns something that threatens to tear his hope apart.  
> Meanwhile, Isla's hoping for a romantic (or at least, erotic) rendezvous. She's about to be sorely disappointed...

“I’m sorry.” Marnie invited Isla inside with a gesture. “He’s been called into work. Some sort of emergency – a sprinkler leaked and the stock has to be moved and salvaged. Didn’t he text you?”

He had, Isla saw. At 11:45. An apology, a promise he’d still come over after dinner. She still couldn’t hide the disappointment, although there was also the faintest touch of relief. She didn’t have to face him, just yet, and remember that expression. The hate and wrath in his twilight eyes.

Why was work so important to him? JojaMart was hell, and Morris was clearly just exploiting him – or was that Isla’s paranoia talking? 

*

“Come to my office,” Morris directed.

Shane groaned. His legs ached, his back ached, everything ached. The broken sprinkler had been bad: it had taken out a significant portion of the storeroom, and he’d spent most of the afternoon heaving the heavy boxes of stock into a safer environment and repacking and sorting the damaged items. 

Why did they need so many bags of flour and fifty different types of sauce anyway? Who was buying all this shit?

His stomach growled, reminding him that that was now well past dinner time – and that all he’d eaten had been a microwave-warmed burrito he’d grabbed on his way out. “I need to get home,” he said. Jas would be waiting for her bedtime story. And Isla... Well... Nervous anticipation had been his constant companion all day. Gods, to think that she desired him as much as he craved her...

Morris turned his cocky grin on him and straightened his bow-tie. “Don’t you want your bonus for coming in on your day off?”

Well, that would be nice. Perhaps then he could swing by the saloon and pick up a pizza or something.

Something had changed in Morris’s office. There were more personal touches. An abstract painting hung on the wall behind the desk, which now hold several framed photographs.

“Sit down Mister Cavanagh,” he directed, folding himself neatly into his own chair. “Your change in attitude has been admirable.”

“Um, thanks.” Shane was surprised. True, he’d been drinking less since he’d been hanging out with Isla – partly because she could hold her own and there was only so much beer he could carry – which meant he generally felt less like shit in the mornings, and therefore was more inclined to get to work on time. “Look, I appreciate this and all, but I do really need to get home to my family.” And Isla.

“Of course, little Jasmine and your ‘auntie’,” he made the inverted commas with his fingers, “Marnie. Yes, they will be missing you.” How did he make that sound like a threat? “Well, we won’t be long.” He swung his chair around, and began typing the code into the safe.

Shane’s eyes strayed across the desk. Past the little sign with Morris’s name on it, and onto the photographs: Morris and a woman in a long white gown and veil. Morris clad in a dress jacket and red bow-tie, displaying his characteristic charismatic grin. The woman was smiling, her eyes alight with happiness. Beside it, another of the same couple, but this time she was holding a small swathed bundle, a baby. The smile was gone, replaced with an expression of resigned sadness.

Something cold and hard gripped Shane’s heart, squeezing it so tight that he had to close his eyes. Was this what it felt like to have a heart attack? Like his heart was shattering into a thousand pieces?

“Here you go, I think you’ll find I’ve made it worth your while.” Morris spun back around on his chair, pressed an envelope into Shane’s hand. Shane barely even noticed, just blindly took it, fingers numb with shock.

“Ah,” Morris continued, lips curling into a sly smile. “I see you know Isla Alexander. My wife.”

Shane barely remembered leaving the office. The lights and sounds blurred together, his thoughts chaotic and grasping. Isla married. Isla a mother. The baby... what had happened to the baby? Fuck, he couldn’t go to her now. Couldn’t go to the saloon either. She’d find him there and... he’d bared his soul, told her his deepest secrets. No you didn’t, a little voice nagged. You didn’t tell her everything. And she hadn’t even told him she was married.

He stumbled, found he’d wandered into JojaMart’s coolroom. Endless walls of liquor. Beer? No, not tonight. He needed something stronger. He grasped the strongest alcohol he could afford. Thank Yoba for the bonus. No, thank Morris.“Fuck,” he whispered at the horrible irony of that thought, and began to laugh. A wretched, strained laugh that maybe sounded more like a dying animal than actual humor. “Pull yourself together you idiot!” 

He twisted the lid off and swigged straight from the bottle. Staggered out. The cashier – Julie, was that her name? – barely blinked when he slapped it on the till in front of her, along with the cash.

“Thank you for shopping at JojaMart,” she intoned without emotion, apparently not even realizing he worked there. “Have a nice evening.”

He saluted her with the bottle, said, “You really don’t give a fuck, do you?” 

“Not to the likes of you,” she muttered. 

He stalked through the automatic doors, the alcohol already flooding his veins, and destabilizing his balance.

Another huge swig outside the door – just as Penny walked by.

“Jas deserves better,” she declared loudly. Well, she’d never liked him anyway. Always looked at him like he was a puppy that had pissed the bed.

Isla had never looked at him like that. Even after he had.

Isla hadn’t told him she was married.

He’d known she and Morris had history, of course, and that didn’t mean shit to him – everyone had history.

He had fallen for her head over fucking heels, and she’d never trusted him enough to tell him that she was married.

And had a kid. (Where was that kid now?)

He took another swig of the booze – 40% proof Jack D. Fuck, he couldn’t go home like this, couldn’t go to the saloon – where the hell could he go?

He let his feet guide him.

*

It was ten-thirty, and Isla finally admitted to herself that Shane wasn’t coming. Even as tears pricked the corner of her eyes, she told herself that he’d probably been kept at work longer, maybe he was worn out from whatever slave labor Morris had demanded of him. Or dammit, maybe he’d got cold feet – maybe he wasn’t as hot for her as she was for him. (But that kiss, oh gods, that kiss...)

She’d had a pleasant afternoon: Jasmine and she had picnicked beneath the cherry blossom tree, and she’d taught the girl how to make necklaces from dandelions. Jasmine had read her a few chapters of her latest book, a classic tale about four children who found the gateway to a secret world in the back of the closet. They’d then had to go back to Jasmine’s house and investigate her own closet, which was sadly lacking in secret portals. 

Marnie had invited her to stay for dinner, perhaps out of pity, but she’d needed to head home and prepare herself both physically and emotionally.

She couldn’t get his feral snarl out of her head. The anger. 

Jasper had been lying on the ground, completely defenceless, and Shane had kicked him.

Even knowing Jasper’s crimes, had he really deserved that?

She balled up the pillow and flung it at the wall. “Fuck him,” she whispered, and reached for her oldest, most reliable friend, drawing it from its sleek leather sheath.

“Mrow!” Titus jumped up on the bed, startling her, jolting the blade from her hands. It clattered to the floor. He nudged her, his head firm against her chin. Purring so hard his entire body vibrated, he curled up against her. His tongue tickled, rasping down the scars that bisected her forearm. 

“Thank you,” she whispered, stroking her fingers through his thick soft fur, and letting her tears fall on him. “Thank you.” 


	28. A Dark Inheritance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shane wakes up after his whisky bender, and Isla decides to deal with the rejection by going to challenge the wizard.  
> Contains a few revelations, and hints at more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for my lack of commitment to updating this. I'm currently around 44k words into "Harmony" and get easily distracted. Given I started it approximately 10 days ago, I think I'm going fairly well.
> 
> Also, apologies for lovers of Rasmodius, as I fear I may have made him a bit of an a-hole.

Something was tickling him. Something warm and damp.

“Isla,” Shane whispered blearily. His tongue felt too large for his mouth. But it wasn’t Isla, of course it wasn’t Isla. 

She’d lied to him. (Fed him the palatable half-truths he’d wanted to hear).

Eyes, open your eyes. Why was everything so bright? Everything hurt, and the bed was so hard. Shit, not the bed – he was on the floor. Hay scratched at him, inching its way into his clothes.

Where the hell was he?

Large face, looming over him. Enormous pink tongue, like a great slug, descending on him. “Buttercup?”

He tried to crawl away, but his clothes were half-crusted to the floor with vomit and spilled whiskey. Pain stabbed sharp and hard inside his head. 

“Shane?” Marnie appeared beside Buttercup, pushed the massive cow away. “What are you doing in here–” Then she saw the state of him. “What have you done to yourself?”

His flailing hand closed on the bottle. Empty. 

“You were doing so well too,” she said. Compassion choked her voice. “What happened? What happened to your plans for the future?”

“What future,” he croaked. “With any luck, I won’t be around long enough to need plans.”

A small, sobbing gasp from somewhere out of sight.

“Jas?” he croaked. Fuck, she’d been listening.

“This isn’t over,” Marnie said. “We’re going to talk – you, me, Isla – like the adults we are.” Then she hurried off to comfort his niece. He should be the one comforting her, instead of being the drunk, screwed-up idiot who’d upset her in the first place.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, to Buttercup, and a curious chicken who had strolled over to see if he was edible. He curled up into a sobbing ball. “I’m so fucking sorry.” 

*

“We’re off to see the wizard!” Abigail declared, practically skipping alongside the horse. Isla felt decidedly less chirpy. She’d sent Shane a text that morning, so he’d see it just before he went to work, but he hadn’t responded. Perhaps she should go to JojaMart and– no, a ridiculous notion, Morris would be there. Besides, what could she say? If he’d been kept late at work, he would’ve messaged her. No, it was plain what had happened: She’d misread his behavior – she’d misread that kiss (even though the memory of it still made her toes curl). He wasn’t interested in her. Not in that way. They were friends, that was all. He’d just been too polite to say, so he’d stood her up instead. Cowardly, yes, but at least the message was clear.

But fuck, how embarrassing. She’d practically thrown herself at him.

Isla needed to distract herself, and what better as a distraction than a confrontation? M. Rasmodius had been spying on her – and she intended to find out why.

“So, Mister Rasmodius.” Abigail stopped to pick a couple of dandelions, then hurried to catch Hercules up. “Would you say he was more like a Dumbledore wizard or a Gandalf wizard?”

“You mean, is he more likely to get inexperienced students to do his dirty work, or to turn up just when all hope is lost and save the day, deus ex machina style?” Isla pondered. “At a guess, the former. So, Dumbledore.”

“Ah, I wonder what House he’d be in.”

“Slytherin, definitely.” Isla wasn’t about to forget about the ‘tea’. Sure, the forest now felt like a part of her – but still, a little warning would’ve been nice. “Any more luck with the junimo’s wish-list?”

They’d gifted her a bag of fertilizer – the bag woven from plant fiber and feathers, the fertilizer a sharp scented, gummy powder – in exchange for the requested crops, but the latest list was proving more of a challenge. 

“Mona and I used to pick morels around here. We’d sell them to Gus at the saloon. Oh look, we’re here.”

The tower rose up before them.

“Are you ready for this?” Abigail asked.

Isla wasn’t. When she’d told Abigail that morning that she intended to come out here, she’d felt emboldened, but that burst of courage had faded, and now her nerves fluttered like butterflies.

She took Abigail’s hand and dismounted the horse, then tied him to a tree. Hercules studied his surrounds, ears flicking, then turned his attention to cropping grass. Isla crouched down to scratch Titus’s ears. The cat wound around her legs, urging her on.

“Okay, let’s do this.” 

Abigail had to help her hobble up the steps and she knocked on the door.

“Enter!” the voice boomed from within. “Greetings Isla Alexander.”

Isla limped in and presented him with a cauliflower – it had seemed the most arcane of her vegetables. He gave it a cursory glance-over.

“Ah, many thanks. The brassica have some most interesting properties.” Then his eyes cast over her and alighted on Abigail. He blinked, eyebrows rising.

“I see that you have brought a friend.”

Abigail’s eyes couldn’t stand still; they darted over the bubbling cauldron, the arcane symbol inscribed on the floor, the lectern in the side alcove that held an enormous, ancient text book. “Wicked,” she whispered. “You really are a wizard.”

“M Rasmodius,” he declared, thrusting his hand at her. “At your service. It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“What happened to ‘seeker of arcane truths,’ and all the rest?” Isla couldn’t resist asking.

The wizard looked faintly embarrassed. He was regarding Abigail with the sort of look that one might give a rare gemstone. “Let’s dispense with titles for now,” he said. “Come, would you like some tea?”

“Don’t drink the tea,” Isla whispered to Abigail.

“Why not?” Abigail mouthed back.

The wizard regarded them, eyebrows twitching. “’Tis a special blend imported from the Calico Desert,” he said. “I think you shall find its taste rather appealing.” He gestured them into a tiny kitchenette and put the kettle on. It all seemed very... ordinary. “Now,” he said, as they settled into high-backed chairs. “You have questions.”

Isla had been rehearsing her speech on the ride here, perfecting it (despite Abigail’s light banter). Now, she found her thoughts had all muddled into confusion and all she could blurt out was, “Jasmine said you’ve been watching me. Why?”

“How well did you know your grandfather, Isla?” He spooned tea leaves into three painted china cups.

“We used to visit every summer, and sometimes winter too. He kept goats. And told stories of monsters that lived in the hills, and the heroes that kept them from over-running the world.”

“And it does not surprise you to learn that those stories were real?” The kettle began to whistle, a high-pitched squeal. Rasmodius removed it from the stove. “Well, no,” Isla admitted. “I’ve seen them. I have a mutant bat in my freezer.”

“There are places in this world,” he said, “where the division between the seen and the unseen are thin. Where it is easy to tear a rift in reality and, as you might say, let the monsters out.”

“And Stardew Valley is such a place?” Abigail had been unusually quiet, now she spoke up.

“Indeed.” He smiled at her, indulgently. “The veil is weak here, and the Void strong. Centuries ago, the founding families – the Alexanders and the Werners – realized this, and established themselves as the protectors: a wizard and a warrior who, side-by-side, would protect the Valley – and, by rote, the world – from the creeping decay of the Void.”

“A wizard and a warrior,” Abigail muttered. She laughed. “I remember. Grandfather told me about that.” Her expression fell. “Until father stopped us visiting him.”

“The Alexanders,” Isla muttered. “My grandfather.”

Hot water splashed into the cups, filling the air with the rich warm spice of the desert. “Indeed,” said Rasmodius. “Your grandfather.” He studied her. “And your grandmother was a Werner.”

Abigail looked at her excitedly. “Isla,” she hissed, grabbing her hand. “We’re cousins! Mom’s a Werner.”

“Ah yes, Gilbert’s daughter,” Rasmodius mused. “She came to me once, for consul.” For a moment his gaze clouded, and a small smile quirked beneath his beard, like he was recalling a pleasant memory. Then it vanished.

“Second cousins,” Isla replied, figuring it out.

“Perhaps.” The wizard smiled knowingly. “You two are unique. For both bloodlines flow through your veins. But who is warrior and who is wizard? We shall see.” He set tea in front of him, delicate china cups, from which rose a heady aroma and the faint haze of steam. “To our new protectors.” His rose in a toast, and he drained it in one gulp.

Abigail swirled her cup for a moment, inhaled it, then drank. Isla stared at hers, unsure of whether she trusted it. It did smell delicious though: sweet and spicy, with a hint of cardamom. She risked a tentative sip, felt the warmth of it engulf her, flowing into her limbs.

It was very good.

Something crashed in the other chamber, followed by an angry yowl. 

Titus! Isla leapt to her feet.

Rasmodius cursed. “It’s found us,” he growled. “Quickly!” He snatched his scepter from the wall, and raced into the other room.

Abigail and Isla exchanged a look. Was there anything to use as a weapon? Isla’s eyes alighted on a cast iron frying pan. She hefted it, welcoming the weight of it. Abigail’s fingers closed around a long butcher’s knife. The two women crept through the door.

Heat and light had fled the wizard’s chamber. Cold prickled along Isla’s spine. Amongst the darkness, above the arcane symbol, shadows and a deep, impenetrable blackness coalesced and coiled. They twisted, formed a head. White eyes blazed, and it split apart to reveal a fang-filled abyss.

“I hasss been waiting for you,” it hissed. Limbs emerged, a body. The candles surrounding began to gutter, spitting forth flame and smoke. “It hasssss been sssso very long since lasssst I ate. Delicious, fressssh flesssssh.”

Titus yowled again. Fur erect, tail bristled into a bottle-brush, he crouched over a dark lump on the floor.

“Holy Yoba,” Abigail breathed. “Is that...” Her knuckles white about the knife’s handle, muscles tense.

The wizard. Isla’s thoughts finished the sentence. Rasmodius, crumpled on the ground. Beyond his prone form, something glinted golden in the spluttering candlelight. The wizard’s scepter. The blue stone set in its pommel called to her. She took a step towards it, eyes on the shadowy figure. It reached out to her, fingers stretching into tentacles of darkness. They coiled their way up her arm, drinking the warmth from her body. The frying pan swung, catching the side of the hand. With a hiss, the creature drew back, shadows stretching and dissipating. 

Emboldened, Abigail sprang forward. The blade flashed, stabbed at the shadow-creature, and she danced back as it swung at her. Isla dove for the scepter, injured ankle screaming in protest. Fingers closed around the shaft. Static electricity crackled up her arm, danced across the scepter. The blue gem began to glow.

“Take that, shadow-bastard!” Isla screamed, aimed the scepter. Light erupted, blinding blue-white. Abigail, leaping around the monster, fell back shielding her eyes. The shadows began to lose form, evaporated back into the floor.

“It’s gone!” Abigail shrieked in delight, skipping over to Isla. “We defeated the monster.”

Isla became aware then, that someone was clapping. The wizard had drawn himself up and now sat on the floor, applauding them. Titus – curled between Rasmodius’s crossed legs – yawned, flashing his long white canines.

“Well done,” said Rasmodius. “No hesitation, and you worked rather well as a team.” He stroked Titus’s head and the cat purred. “Your quick action and instinctual bonding with my scepter prove that you are the wizard, Isla.”

Abigail’s eyes narrowed. “That was a test?” she growled.

“Indeed, wasn’t it fun?”

Abigail tried to look pissed, but Isla could feel her enthusiastic energy, like a tightly coiled spring. “It was wicked,” she admitted.

“And the warrior’s blood flows true through your veins, Abigail.” He drew himself to his feet, and held out his hand to Isla. 

She reluctantly passed him the scepter. She felt a little emptier without it. “What was that thing?” 

“A Void spirit,” he replied. “The kind that are commonly referred to as a ‘Shadow Brute’. There are many that lurk within the mines – the spirits of lost miners that have been corrupted by the Void.”

“And we totally killed it!” Abigail waved the knife.

“Careful with that.” The wizard strode forward and plucked it from her fingers. “That’s my favorite carving knife. And you banished it back to the Void. They are not, truly alive, and thus cannot, ever be killed, nor even destroyed. Not as long as the Void holds power.”

“Well then, we totally banished it.” Abigail grinned at Isla. “You’re a wizard, Isla. Does that mean she gets a wand?” The last directed back at Rasmodius.

“It’s called a scepter,” he said solemnly. “And they must be earned. Wizards do not need wands, we need a tool with which to focus the energy. I may use a scepter – but, Isla, I believe your grandfather favored jewelry.” He ran his fingers over the blue stone. “Mine is a shard of aquamarine; Isla must find which gem calls to her.”

“You mean all that crystal power stuff that Emily goes on about is actually true?” Abigail stared at him, incredulous.

“Some of it.” He stepped forward, grasped Isla’s hands in his own. His eyes met her. Dark eyes, iris encircled by a green and gold halo. There was something oddly familiar about them.

“Wait,” Isla breathed, realising. The Alexanders and the Werners, became the protectors. “We’re related. Aren’t we?”

He nodded. “Your grandfather was my father, Isla Alexander.”

“Hold on,” Abigail exclaimed. “You said both bloodlines flow through our veins, and my mother was a Werner, but my father... well, his family come from Northern Ferngill.”

Rasmodius smiled then, a sad, solemn smile. “You must ponder that out yourself, Abigail Le Roux. But for now, seek out your uncle, for he shall train you in the sword. And as for you, my niece, once you have found the gem that speaks to you, return to me for training.” 

The memory of the power still sizzled in Isla’s fingertips, like pins and needles. She wanted to know more, needed to know what to do with this new-found knowledge. “Is that all you can give me, you tell me I’m a wizard and expect me to just walk away?”

“It is more than I was ever given.” He turned and stalked over to the bookcase in the corner. “For your grandfather abandoned my mother, abandoned this town. Her only memento – aside from me, of course, a strange and solemn bastard child – a book. This book.” He slid a slender volume from the bookcase, and turned, pressing it into her hands. 

It was old, battered notebook bound in leather, cover soft from years of use. She opened it, found an inscription written on the inside cover, recognized her Grandfather’s tidy scrawl.

“To my first-born son,   
It is my greatest regret that I shall never see you become the man I know you will. All I can give you is my guidance, and the wisdom of our ancestors,   
R. Alexander”

The rest of the notebook was filled with writing: flowing graceful script, and tight indecipherable scrawl. There were pictures too: sketches and diagrams.

“Read it,” he said. “Find your focus gem, and return to me.” His fingers darted out, cool against her chin, rising it to meet his viridian gaze. “But make haste, niece, for the Void grows stronger with every day.”

Isla pressed the precious notebook to her breast. Her, a wizard? (Or was it witch?). Abigail had fallen unusually silent, was studying Rasmodius pensively.

Titus trotted to the door and mewed insistently. Clearly, it was time to leave.


	29. Face the Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shane must face the consequences of his actions. Meanwhile Isla visits the Saloon.

“You look like something the dog threw up.” Sam slid in next to Shane. “Are you okay?”

“Thanks for that,” Shane returned. Somehow, against all odds, he’d managed to drag himself into the shower and stagger into work only five minutes late for his shift. He hadn’t seen Morris today, thank Yoba, because he wasn’t sure he could resist punching the bastard in the face. “I’m okay.” The morning had been a semi-dazed hell – he was pretty sure a good percentage of his blood was still infused with alcohol – but somehow he’d survived through to his lunch break.

“No you’re not,” Sam replied. Shane tried not to gag as the kid started shoveling microwaved pizza into his mouth. Instead, he let his head sink onto his arms.

“No,” he agreed, but only because it might shut the kid up. Why did he have to speak so goddamn loud? “I’m not.”

“You break up with Isla?”

“What!” Shane jolted his head up, regretted it immediately. Let it drop back down again. “No, we’re just friends,” he mumbled into his arm. “Were. Besides turns out she’s married.”

Sam’s knife clattered to the floor, and he scrabbled to pick it up. “She’s what?”

“Married. Had a kid and everything.” Pain, as he expelled the words, found that he had needed to tell someone, even as he wanted to crawl under the table and hide from reality. “To Morris.”

“Shit.” Sam breathed the word. “She told you this last night? Pretty heavy stuff. No wonder you look like crap.”

“She didn’t tell me at all.” Shane couldn’t hide the bitterness in his voice. “She doesn’t trust me. And why the hell should she? I’m a loser and a drunk.” His fingers traced circles on the table. “No, Morris has photographs. On his desk. Of her. With him.”

“Are you sure they’re not photo-shopped? Wait, maybe she has like a twin sister?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Shane groaned. “Why don’t you fuck off and leave me alone, Sam. Let me wallow.”

“You’re my friend,” Sam declared. “It is my sworn duty to cheer you up.”

What? When had that happened? “I don’t have friends,” he muttered. “And the best way to cheer me up is to leave me alone.”

“No can do, I’m afraid. How much did you drink anyway?”

Shane told him and Sam whistled. “Dude, how are you still standing? Jeez, how are you even alive?”

“I think I spilt a lot of it,” Shane admitted. “And probably threw up the rest.”

“Shit man, and you still managed to come to work. That takes guts.”

“Probably not much liver left though,” Shane added, wryly. How was it that Sam’s light banter was actually making him feel better? Not physically, physically he still felt like absolute shit, but emotionally, a teeny bit. It was nice to know that, even when his world was crumbling down, someone gave half a damn about him.

His cell alarm trilled, signaling the end of break. He groaned and stood, hunched over his belly. Coming to work might’ve taken guts, but damn, they hurt.

“You should go home,” Sam suggested. “I’ll cover for you – tell them you ate some bad seafood or something.”

“No.” He shook his head. Couldn’t face Marnie, or Jas, and the confrontation he knew was coming. He’d forced himself up, forced himself into the shower (where he’d thrown up again), and staggered to work, still a little unsteady. All to avoid them. To avoid the fear in Jas’s eyes, the disappointment on Marnie’s face. 

And Isla. Oh shit. Thinking of her made his stomach churn. “Why couldn’t you trust me?” he whispered.

*

“Emily’s not here,” the beautiful blond woman told her. “She’s at work. In the saloon.” Her sky-blue eyes drifted up and down, studying Isla intently. “You know,” she said, after a moment, “if it weren’t for those hideous clothes, you might actually be pretty. Actually,” she shook her head and took a step back, “nevermind.”

What a pleasant woman. “Well, thank you.” Isla let an edge of sarcasm creep into her voice. “Have a lovely day.” Flashed her most charming false smile. Departed. Of course, she did have a point. But Isla liked the hideous clothing; it was her protective camouflage, her shell.

The Stardrop Saloon was a quaint stone building. It felt weird that the only time she’d been here had been to extract Shane – but the idea of walking into a smoky country pub, filled with locals, hadn’t appealed. This early in the day, however, it should be fairly quiet. Taking a deep breath, Isla pushed open the door and walked in.

“Welcome back Isla!” The large man behind the bar greeted her. “You’re a bit too early if you’re here to steal one of my best customers.”

Isla fumbled about in embarrassment. “Um, yeah. Sorry about that.”

His laughter came, rich with amusement. “No need to apologize – lad needed a wake-up call. Anyway, the name’s Gus, and I am at your service.” He gave a small bow. “What can I do for you?”

Actually... Isla fished in her pocket, drew out the rather battered coupon she’d found in her mailbox. “Is this still valid?” 

“Indeed it is, choose your seat, and Emily shall bring it out in, oh, about fifteen minutes.”

The saloon was empty, so Isla selected a booth along the wall and eased into it, placing the notebook on the table in front of her. So much to think upon – not as much as Abigail, perhaps, who’d remained silent for much of the walk back to the farm, then scurried off with ‘important business’. She’d been distracted ever since the whole ‘both bloodlines’ comment. Isla didn’t like to pry, but Rasmodius had implied that he’d known Abigail’s mother... No, none of her business. She started flipping through the pages, turning them with great care. Most of the handwriting was her Grandfather’s, indicating he’d copied the text from somewhere else, but he’d not organized it in the process. There were recipes (Oil of Garlic, and something called a Life Elixir), interspersed with anatomical diagrams (it seemed one of her ancestors had been a little too fond of dissection), faerie tales and journal style anecdotes, and runes, pages and pages of runes and magic spells: some for protection (‘from the beasts of the night’ – she’d have to try that one!), some for healing (‘to cure the pox’, ‘to mend a broken heart’) and a very few for darker purposes (‘to blight a crop’). In the margins, someone – probably Rasmodius – had taken notes. Isla found her eyes drawn to a passage about the junimo:

_Nor are Junimo immune to the Void’s taint. When touched by its dark presence, they lose shape and presence. It is my theory that they and the gelatinous slime that infest the mines are somehow related._

“Your pizza!” Emily’s chirpy greeting drew Isla from her reverie. The pizza smelt divine, and looked even better: olives and tomatoes, cheese and green pepper. It was set before on a wooden platter, and Emily slid into the seat opposite. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” she said, her voice low, as though trying to draw Isla into some sort of conspiracy.

“Yes.” Isla found it hard to drag her eyes from the pizza. The crust looked so crispy. But she had come here for a reason. “I need to talk to you too, about gemstones.”

“Cool, we’ll get to that in a minute,” she said, waving it aside for now. “Did you know, it’s Shane’s birthday this Saturday? And the flower dance is on Wednesday.”

“Shit,” Isla exclaimed, and Emily winced at the expletive. “Sorry. He never told me.” She’d need to find him a gift – what the heck would he like?

“He wouldn’t tell you. The guy keeps everything bottled up tight.” She sighed. “Doesn’t realize it’s negatively influencing his spirit. Sometimes all you need to do is let someone in.” Her hand snaked out, grabbed Isla’s. Her fingernails were long, beautifully manicured, and the exact shade of blue as her hair. “But you know that already, don’t you, Isla?”

Isla nodded. She wasn’t sure how she felt about the contact, but at the same time, couldn’t draw her hand away. There was an intensity about the woman.

“He needs you,” Emily continued. “Shadows surround him. The Void touched his family a long time ago, and has never let him go. You’ve danced with shadows too – but there is a lightness about you now. Now, the dance.” She drew her hand back and the intensity fled from her expression. “First day of May, there will be flowers, and food, and dancing. You’ll need a dress. I’ll make it for you, drop by my house tomorrow, and I’ll take your measurements.”

Isla drew back, hugging herself. “I don’t really do dances,” she said. “Or dresses. I think I’d rather just watch.”

The door swung open, and an older woman walked in. Permed blond hair, far too much make-up, and a sour scowl that turned to a cheerful grin. “Gus! My old friend, a pint of the usual please.”

“Oops,” Emily said. “Gotta go, Pam’s here.” She squeezed Isla’s shoulder. “Think about it, please. I’d love to make you a dress.” She nodded at the tray. “Enjoy your pizza. I’ll be back soon. Gemstones, right?”

The pizza was delicious. She was halfway through her third slice when the door opened again and Clint entered. His eyes flicked across the seats, alighted on her briefly, then quickly darted away. She hadn’t visited him since the incident over the diamond – but she’d apologised, and he hadn’t seemed even slightly troubled. So why was he ignoring her now? He hadn’t spoken to her at the Egg Festival either, she recalled. He seated himself down at a table by the door.

“So, you’re the new farmer then.” The permed woman – Pam – slid into the booth opposite her. “I’ve heard a lot about you. I bet you’re growing lots of tasty things on that farm of yours. Speaking about tasty things,” she continued, tongue darting out to moisten her lips. (And why was she wearing so much lipstick? It looked like it’d been applied in the dark). “I hear you’ve been getting cozy with Shane.”

Isla shuddered. “We’re friends,” she said. She didn’t bother introducing herself. (Please just go away and leave me alone.)

“I’ve missed seeing him around here. Gave me something pleasant to look at.” 

She was old enough to be his mother. The door opened again, and Isla glanced, hoping for some excuse to extract herself from this very uncomfortable conversation. 

“Oh, speak of the devil.” Pam shot her a lecherous smile, eyes lighting up. Shane stalked purposely across the room, and stood beside the fireplace. Even on this warm spring evening, flames blazed in the hearth. “You gonna go talk to him, love?” 

Gus wandered over to bring Shane a beer, gestured in her direction. Shane looked her way – and a cloud fell across his face. He shook his head at Gus, and made a beeline for the door, leaving the tankard, abandoned, on the counter.

Shit. It was worse than she’d thought. She’d ruined their friendship.

Pam seemed highly amused. “Oh no,” she chortled. “Looks like someone’s been given the cold shoulder. What did ya do, love? Get between him and his beer?”

“Don’t call me ‘love’,” Isla growled. She scooped up the notebook and extracted herself from the booth, limping to the door. By the time she got there, he was out of sight.

Hercules looked up at her, whinnied anxiously. She could mount the horse, ride after him, but would it really matter? He clearly didn’t want to see her.

So much for uniting the town. She hobbled back to her table, relieved to find Pam had returned to her perch at the bar, and resumed her seat, blinking away tears.

“What have I done?” she asked Emily, as the woman came over to check on her. “I... I think I scared him away.”

“Sssh,” Emily cooed, squeezing into the booth seat beside her, enfolding her in a warm embrace. She smelt like lavender. Her fingers stroked Isla’s hair, and she felt instantly calmer. “Do you want to talk about it?” Emily asked. “Or would you rather talk about gemstones?”

Isla took a deep, shaky breath, wiped away the tears. “Gemstones,” she said. “Please. I’d like to know what they mean and what they do.” 

*

What was she doing there? And getting chummy with Pam, of all people? Shane thought his head might split open; everything felt like a terrible, tangled mess. There were so many questions he wanted to ask her, so many answers he craved, but not in the saloon. Not with all those eyes upon them. He’d hoped she might follow him, had even hesitated for a few minutes, outside 2 Willow Lane, listening for hoofbeats, but zip. Nada. Nothing. Wasn’t sure what he would’ve said to her had she come. He’d been a fool anyway, a fool to think he might actually deserve someone like her. No, she deserved so much more than a lowly Joja-slave. Someone like Morris – a well-dressed businessman with prospects. But she left him and came here, his brain prodded. And she chose you as her first friend. Even after you turned up drunk on her doorstep.

Surely that counts for something. 

Wife, he had said, not ex-wife. Just ‘wife’. 

He could’ve been lying, maybe she ran and he couldn’t bear to let her go. 

Would you have let her go?

... half-truths that they want you to hear ...

Who do you trust more? Wonderful, smart Isla, or smarmy, manipulative Morris?

Don’t we all have secrets we’re too afraid to share?

Don’t you?

“Fuck,” he muttered. He’d been so damned wrapped up in the shock and his own stupid misery, he’d let the bastard play him for a freaking fool.

But she hadn’t followed him, and his feet had guided him home to the ranch – the first real home he had ever known. 

He owed Jas a bedtime story, and he owed Marnie an explanation.

Tomorrow, he would work out how to make things right again between them. Tomorrow.


	30. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isla willingly lets the darkness back into her life.
> 
> Trigger warning: some non-con elements

It was later than Isla expected when she mounted Hercules and headed home. The warmth and the laughter of the saloon had been comforting, a blanket between her and her worries and regrets. It was a Monday night, hadn’t been particularly busy, and Emily had spent most of the evening chatting with her, occasionally bustling off to take Pam another ale or deliver a pint to Clint.

The blacksmith’s eyes had been on Emily for most of the evening, Isla noticed. She wondered if Emily knew. Wondered if Emily could sense the longing that radiated from him. Isla didn’t know how to feel about this heightened awareness, this empathy. It felt almost perversely voyeuristic, and she wondered if she could dampen it, or turn it off.

A cider or two seemed to help.

She read the notebook a bit longer, nursing her third cider, and studied the blue gem she’d found in the mines. An amethyst, Emily had said. Good for emotional issues. It was small, no larger than her thumbnail, but – and this may have been the cider talking – caught the light beautifully. Perhaps she could have it set into a necklace, or a ring.

When Gus began sweeping the floor, she suddenly realized that the saloon was empty of customers, and it was well past midnight.

“I’ll walk you home?” Emily suggested, setting the last of the glasses into the industrial-strength dishwasher.

Isla shook her head. “Thanks for the offer,” she said, “but I have Hercules.”

“Oh yes, the beautiful horse tied outside.” She grinned. “Well, goodnight.” She gave Isla a quick hug. “I’ll look forward to seeing you tomorrow morning.”

Isla wasn’t sure how it had happened, but Emily had managed to persuade her into the dress-fitting.

Outside, the night air was mild and clear, scented with pine and blossom. Not too long until summer now – and here in the countryside, there were so many stars. It was magnificent. 

A figure loomed near the bus-stop.

“Hello Isla.” His voice a familiar rumble, warm as honey, as charming as a serpent about to strike.

“Morris.” Her voice flat. Her empathy could not sense him at all; he wasn’t part of the valley, not like the insects that hummed, nor the distant chorus of frogs. “What are you doing here?”

“I was lonely, Isla.” He kept saying her name, and every time he did, it was like the kiss of the blade. Painful, yet oddly comforting. “I’ve missed you.”

“You left me,” she said. “Said you couldn’t stand the sight of me.” Dammit, the tears were back.

“I was wrong. I was grieving, Isla. We both were.” He stepped forward, reached for her. His bow-tie was crooked, his jacket mis-buttoned. Seeing him disheveled felt weird, and wrong. Had he been drinking?

“You said it was my fault,” she whispered (but he was right, the devious little voice in her mind reminded her, it was). “You said you could never forgive me.” She blinked back the tears, nudged Hercules on. The horse obeyed. 

“And for that I’m sorry.” Why wouldn’t he stop following her? 

“I didn’t want to hurt you.” Tears glistened in the corners of his eyes.

“Please, just leave me alone.” Isla tried, but her resolve was weakening. She had loved him, once, for all that he had hurt her, shut her out, after… after...

“I just want to talk to you. Please. Give me a chance, Isla. Please?”

It was the final “please” that broke her resistance. He sounded so haunted, so broken. She knew she shouldn’t invite him back into her life, but she nodded, anyway.

“I need to settle Hercules first,” she said. “Wait here.” Gestured at the porch. “I won’t be long.”

Took Hercules into the barn, settled him into the stall. If it took perhaps a little longer than usual to unsaddle him, to brush him down, that was just her, steadying her nerves. 

Titus entwined her ankles. She knelt, stroked him.

“I need to talk to him,” she whispered, trying to convince herself more than the cat. And when it all came down to it, he was still her husband. The person she had stood with, promised to love and cherish, in sickness and in health – and all the rest. Lies, though they had been.

“Isla,” he whispered, rising as she hobbled towards the porch. “Your ankle. What happened?”

“I fell,” she whispered.

“You poor thing.” His hand brushed her cheek. She tried not to flinch. Failed. He drew his hand back as though stung. “I knew… you need someone to protect you, Isla.” Voice low, filled with sympathy.

Tears sprang to her eyes. “Please,” she whispered. “Don’t pity me.”

“I don’t. I’m just sorry. Sorry I left you alone. Can we go inside?” A nervous glance around. And no wonder – Isla could feel the monsters awakening. A beast unfurling its wings in the wilderness. Morris swallowed. “It’s so dark, it’s unnatural.”

Isla choked back a laugh. “It’s night-time in the country,” she said. “You get used to it.” She opened the door, invited him in. Heart pounding against her ribs, nudging her: Are-you-sure-this-is-the-right-thing-to-do?

“You haven’t filed the divorce papers,” she said, as Morris seated himself at the table. “You sold the house … but you haven’t filed the papers.”

“Isla,” he whispered. “I couldn’t bring myself to. I’m sorry. I’ve been thinking. Since you left.”

“Since you threw me out,” she returned. “Sold the house out from under me.” Too anxious to sit down, pacing the floor. “Coffee? Tea?” Something stronger?

“Tea,” he replied. “I missed you. And… living here all alone. It’s unhealthy for you.” He gestured at her ankle. “You need someone to look after you.” A pause. “I still love you, Isla.”

She fussed over the cups, trying to hide the tears that glistened in her eyes, trickled down her cheeks. She heard him slide the chair back, stand. Felt his footsteps vibrating through the floorboards. His hands on her shoulders, strong, gentle. The heat of his body, close against her. So familiar, yet alien at the same time. So easy, so easy to relax into his embrace. She turned, a mistake, because he was so close; their bodies brushed. She tried to take a step back, pressed herself against the bench. Her breath caught in her throat, and her heart fluttered, like a trapped bird. Fear? Excitement? Anticipation? All of the above? 

His hand traced the curve of her face, from ear to chin, tilted her face so that their eyes met. “Tell me,” he whispered. “Tell me, you don’t miss me too.”

She swallowed hard. Thoughts a confusion of tangled sheets, two breathing as one. Hands clasped, watching the sun rise. His hands on her shoulder, the tiny wrapped bundle in her arms. Tears, falling on crushed flowers. She didn’t answer, couldn’t answer; he took her silence as assent, leaned lower and kissed her.

Lips rough and hungry, flavored with smoke, the sour undercurrent of whiskey. His tongue probed at her lips, a fat slug trying to force itself in. She recoiled. Hands on his chest, pushed him away.

He stared at her, eyes dark with lust. Seized her by the shoulders, thrust her back. The counter top pressed against her spine. His cock burned hot and hard against her belly. “You’re my wife, Isla,” he whispered. “And I want you. Fuck, how I’ve missed you. Submit to me.”

No! Isla felt disjointed, detached. Air snagged in her throat; she couldn’t breath. A memory: her heart crumbling with grief, stone cutting into her spine. His weight above her, low guttural grunts as he thrust inside her. Breath hot on her face, rank with booze and smoke. Hands rough upon her. Her begging, ‘No, please stop. Not now, not here’. And the same old words, ‘You’re my wife Isla. My wife.’

“No!” she screamed. Tried to knee him, to wriggle free, but he was too strong, too solid.

You’ve fought real monsters Isla, you can fight this monster. 

“I’m not your fucking wife,” she snarled. Something burned, icy-cold, in her pocket. She reached in, fingers closing around the amethyst. Felt energy swell up her arm. “I’m not your fucking anything.” She brought her hand out of her pocket. And punched him. The power exploded out of her, a wall of force that sent him backwards, crashing into the table. What the hell? Blue light glowed through her clenched fingers, the amethyst chill against her palm.

Morris disentangled himself from the table, stared at her, hair wild, glasses askew, eyes filled with rage and terror. Isla held up her fist. Stared at it in disbelief. Her knuckles throbbed.

“So that’s it then,” he snarled. “I’m no longer good enough for you? Now you’ve whored yourself to that drunkard loser, I’m somehow not good enough for you?” He spat the words at her. “How many other people in this town have you fucked?” 

Titus, yowling, came to stand between them. Ears back, fur bristling, he looked – no he was – twice his normal size. Lips drawn back, teeth flashing white.

“What the fuck have you become?” Morris pressed himself back, against the door, fumbled with the handle. “This isn’t over!”

A creak, the door opened, he slipped through. Footsteps crunched on gravel. Isla followed to the doorway, watched him race away into the night.

Hoped the monsters would get him.

Drew her phone from her pocket. She should call someone? The police? No. They’d have to come from Grampleton – it could take hours. And then what would she tell them? (You invited him into your house – you brought this upon yourself. He didn’t hurt you – he’s still your husband). Shane? No – she couldn’t face him. Couldn’t face the shame. 

Besides, her phone was dead.

She bolted the door, braced it with the table, and curled up in bed, her sword – and Titus – beside her, amethyst still clutched in her hand. Only then, did she allow the crushing, wrenching grief to wash over her, and cried herself to sleep. 

* 

“Uncle Shane, Uncle Shane,” the small voice, and persistent nudging stirred him. He forced his eyes open. 

“What’s wrong, kiddo?” Jas, in her bunny-print pajamas, staring up at him, her blue eyes (Mona’s eyes) large and frightened.

“I’m scared, uncle,” she whispered. “Can I come, sleep with you?”

“Course, kiddo.” He rolled over, helped her clamber into the bed. “What’s wrong?” She curled up under his chin, a tiny, warm, shaking ball.

“The monster’s back.”

“Oh. In your dreams?”

He felt her nod against him. “He wants me to come with him,” she said. “To a magical land. But I know he’s lying. He’s not a nice monster. The magical land is a dark and evil place. And he’s lonely, so very lonely.”

He stroked her hair. “It’s okay, kiddo, I’m here. Marnie’s here. We’ll protect you.”

“Promise me,” she whispered. “Promise me you won’t leave me.”

“Course, I promise. I’ll never leave you,” he whispered. This was my fault. I’ve put these thoughts in her head. I’ve lead the monster back. He pressed a kiss onto the top of her head. “I’m not going anywhere, kiddo.”


	31. Love Like Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the horrible events of the previous night, Isla falls back on bad habits to fight her despair. She also pays a visit to a couple of new friends, to prepare for the Flower Dance.
> 
> Trigger Warning: Self harm/cutting

Dawn’s dreary fingers found Isla huddled on her bed. The amethyst had left an imprint in her palm. Titus paced and meowed, anxious to get outside, and she opened the door for him. It was raining, a thick, incessant drizzle that perfectly matched her mood. Her farm looked so calm, so peaceful, albeit still somewhat wild. The rain had washed away any trace of last night’s intruder. It could have been almost a dream.

She shut the world out, turned the shower on full. Razor in hand, she traced the blade down her forearm; the water washed her blood away, diluted it, swirled it down the drain. 

First a slash, then another, the old scars opening, spreading their slender smiles. Almost without thought, she brought the blade to her belly, gently tracing the narrow red stretchmarks, her body’s reminder of the son-that-could-never-be, the son that should have saved her marriage, instead of fracturing two people beyond repair. The blade scratched but didn’t bite until she pressed the edge down, began, shakily, to carve a chain of runes around her belly-button. 

Even as the water ran cold, the last of the blood washed down the drain, she still didn’t feel clean.

*

“Emily’s expecting you,” she told the world. She couldn’t hide from it. (It’s your own stupid fault. You invited him in). Searched through her wardrobe, aware Emily would be measuring her. Shit. A light-weight long-sleeved shirt, that clung to her curves but hid her fresh scars. Black, to hide any blood that might still seep. Threw over it an unbuttoned tartan shirt she’d found in her grandfather’s chest. Blue jeans with a belt. Amethyst in pocket. 

The rain meant no need to water her crops, but she harvested a few of the strawberries, slipped them into one of the many empty containers stacked in her pantry and tied a ribbon around it. Hopefully Emily would appreciate them. She also checked on the chickens, fed and cuddled them – Bluebell was finally starting to warm to her – and saddled Hercules. The usually stolid horse seemed a bit more anxious than usual. Had the events last night upset him? Was she going to break the horse’s temperament too? The new wounds on her belly throbbed dully.

She cursed Morris under her breath, and set off south, cutting through Cindersap. Not because it was any quicker, but because well, it was fairly early in the morning, and Shane might be heading for work.

Movement caught her eye, and she saw a flash of violet through the trees. Abigail? Hurrying through the trees, towards the wizard’s tower, perhaps to ask a very pertinent question.

Isla wasn’t sure she’d like the answer. She’d said that she and Mona had liked to pretend the ‘mysterious man in the tower’ was their father – but having wistful imagination become probable reality was another matter entirely.

Marnie stood in a paddock, shoveling dung. The older woman was wearing dungarees and knee-high gumboots, her wild mane of hair bound up in a bun that was rapidly escaping. She rose a hand in greeting.

Time to put on her mask, and face the world.

Isla drew Hercules up beside the fence. “Do you look after this place on your own?” 

She nodded. “Rescue farms don’t bring in a lot of profit.” She gave a rueful laugh. “Or pretty much any. Luckily Shane helps out with the chickens, and we have a couple of local kids that volunteer, mostly on weekends. Otherwise, it’s just me – especially on rainy days, when the kids don’t want to do anything outside, but the animals still need tending.”

What about Shane? Isla wanted to ask. He was losing his soul to JojaMart, working a low-skills, pretty crap job that he hated, but he clearly really cared for the animals; he’d do an excellent job here. So why didn’t he? It probably came down to money – and it was none of her business, and would be rude to ask.

“That must be hard work,” she said instead.

“It is,” Marnie replied, her eyes glinting. “But I love it. I think you can tell a lot about people by how they treat animals.” 

Isla self-consciously ruffled Hercules’s mane. He was eye-balling another horse, must be one of the new rescues.

“Obviously, we get a lot of very sad cases here,” she continued. “But watching them flourish and gain confidence, well, it’s a small miracle.” Her eyes darkened with sadness. “But then there’s the ones that never recover.”

She wasn’t talking about the animals now, Isla realized, she was remembering Mona and Jasper – maybe even Shane – and other broken children. People had a different kind of resilience from animals. People remembered, people held grudges. People clung to their grief, and let it eat them from within.

“I heard it’s Shane’s birthday soon,” Isla said, more to break the shadow that had fallen upon them than anything else.

Marnie’s eyes snapped up. “He told you?”

“No, Emily did.”

“Ah.” She sighed. “I didn’t think he would. You’d think turning thirty would be worth celebrating, especially... well, he’s come a long way.” She caught Isla’s eyes, held her gaze. “I’m not going to lie,” she said. “There were times when I doubted he’d get this far. Especially, well.” She faltered, perhaps aware she may be treading into unknown terrain. “I know about Mona,” Isla replied. “That she’s Jasmine’s mom, and... I know how she died.”

Relief. “Thank Yoba,” Marnie breathed. For a moment she looked like she wanted to hug Isla, and she blinked back tears. Was it really that hard to believe that Shane would share his sister with someone else? An outsider?

Probably.

“He came to me after she died, you know. Poor kid. Twenty-one years old, and left holding a baby, mourning the most important person in his life. He should’ve stayed with us – but, I think he found it too stifling. Preferred the anonymity of the city. Only came back after–” Here she faltered, aware that she had, perhaps, reached the edge of what she could share with Isla. She wiped her hand across her face, pretending to brush water from her forehead, whilst also wiping away her tears. “Anyway, if we stand out here too long chatting, you could catch your death of cold. Would you like to come in?”

“I would,” Isla replied, “honestly. But I’m actually on my way to see Emily. She’s offered to make me a dress for the Flower Dance. Although,” she gestured at her ankle, “I’m not sure I’m able to dance.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll look beautiful anyway,” Marnie replied. “Why don’t you come over for dinner on Saturday? Shane won’t let us throw him an official party, but he can’t stop me inviting our favorite neighbor over for dinner.”

Isla blushed, the wounds on her belly and arm throbbing, reminding her that she didn’t deserve the praise this woman was giving her. This kind, generous woman who had welcomed forgotten, hurting (broken) children into her home, and into her heart. Who still could not resist reaching out to touch the wounded. 

“I’d like that,” she said. “I’d like that very much indeed. But, well, only if he wants me to be there. Can you ask him, please?”

Marnie nodded, and from her gaze, Isla knew that something had happened between them, something that had the rancher very, very worried. She nodded. “I’ll ask him tonight. But Isla,” she reached up, over the fence, and clasped Isla’s hand with her own, “whatever he says, I’d still like you to come, okay?”

“Okay,” Isla agreed.

*

Emily answered the door, with a hug and a beaming smile. “I’m so pleased you could make it!” she said. “I thought the weather might put you off.”

“You know us farmers,” Isla remarked. “We love the rain – means we don’t have to spend the morning watering everything.”

“Well come in, get dry. I’ll put the kettle on, and we can get started.”

The house was impeccable. Haley say on the couch, painting her nails. Even sprawled out, she managed to look glamorous. She glanced up at Isla.

“Ah, I see the farm girl is sporting the grunge look today,” she said. “How very last century.”

“She has a name you know,” Emily reminded her.

“I um, brought you these.” Isla set the strawberries down on the coffee table, and carefully drew a bunch of daffodils out of her backpack. She’d passed them when leaving the ranch, and thought a bit of color might brighten up the day.

They certainly brightened up Haley’s face. And if she was beautiful when she looking haughty, she became absolutely stunning when she smiled. “For me? Thank you! I’ll get a vase.”

She sounded so delighted that Isla wondered if the haughtiness were just the mask she wore.

“This is a lovely house,” Isla remarked.

“Thank you. It’s our parents.” Emily came out of the kitchen. “They’re enjoying their retirement, exploring the world.”

“They’ve been gone three years,” Haley added, with a faint hint of bitterness. She began arranging the daffodils in a high-necked vase.

“They send us postcards from all sorts of exotic places.” Emily was trying to sound chipper, but Isla could sense that she, too, was a little hurt at being abandoned – probably because she’d been left in the company of her sister.

“When they remember.” Haley made no effort to hide her own hurt. “They’re doing good deeds, helping people in places where they can’t help themselves,” she explained, making it sound almost like an accusation. “Meanwhile, we’re left keeping house.”

The kettle whistled. “Will you pour us some tea, please Haley?” Emily asked, waving her blue-tipped fingers. “I need to start taking Isla’s measurements.”

Haley frowned at her. “I suppose you’d like cookies too.”

“Actually yes please, that would be great. In the parrot tin.” Emily seemed immune to sarcasm – either that or she had an excellent poker face. She held up a notebook and a tape measure. “Right, take off that flannel shirt and let’s get you measured up.”

*

“What are you going to do with your hair?” Haley sat demurely on the couch, delicately eating a chocolate chip cookie and watching while Emily poked and prodded at Isla with the tape measure. 

“I hadn’t thought about it. I normally just tie it back so it’s out of the way.” 

Haley winced, as though Isla had insulted herself. “Would you let me?” she asked, a little hesitantly. “You’ve got great natural curl – it just needs to be tamed in the right direction.”

“All done,” Emily declared, patting Isla on the shoulder and pocketing her tape measure. “You can move now.” 

Isla let her hands drop to her side, said to Haley, “If you like.”

A smile lit up her face. She patted the couch next to her. 

“What, right now?”

“Sure, why not?” A playful glint in her eye. “You got anything better to do?”

The thought of going back to her empty farm, when he might come back, send cold chills down her spine. She needed to take the amethyst to Rasmodius, but didn’t want to interrupt anything between he and Abigail. Besides, the rain had become a deluge. Hopefully Hercules would be sheltered enough under the large blossom tree outside.

She settled onto the couch.

“You wash it this morning?”

Isla nodded. “Yes.” Somewhere between scrubbing away his touch and carving her skin.

“Excellent.” Haley’s fingers sunk into her hair, massaging her scalp, and it was hard not to purr. So this was why Titus liked it so much. Haley set about with brush, clips, and a curling iron. At some point, she slipped the television on, and switched to some sort of period drama. A little later, Emily left for work.

“Farming sounds so boring,” Haley commented, as soon as her sister left. “What do you do all day, anyway?”

“Mostly tend my crops, play with the chickens and read books,’ Isla replied. She could feel her eyelids starting to droop.

“Oh, that sounds like a lot of work,” she replied with vague disinterest, and Isla wondered if she’d even be listening. “Pelican Town is so small. I have to drive like twenty miles to do any proper shopping. You’re from Zuzu right? Why made you come here?”

My marriage fell apart and I needed to escape. “Just needed a change, I guess.”

Haley nodded. “Do you miss the city?”

Isla considered it. “Not really,” she said. “I mean, I miss the convenience of being able to order takeaway when I don’t want to cook, or popping out to buy toothpaste when I realize I’ve run out, but I like it here. It’s peaceful. Mostly.” Even if it’s a bit isolated.

“Really? I’d love to live in the city. So, are you going to wear make-up?”

“What? Probably not.” Her only make-up was an ancient black lipstick and some eye-shadow left over from her emo-goth phase when she was fifteen. 

“You should,” she said. “With some make-up on you’d actually look quite pretty.”

“Thanks.” I think. “Is this what you want to get into? Professionally I mean?” Isla gestured to her hair.

“Ugh, no, touching other people’s greasy hair or day? Ick. No, I haven’t really thought about it.” She sounded pensive. “Did you always want to be a farmer?”

Isla couldn’t hold back the guffaw. “I can’t say I’d ever considered it.”

“So what did you want to do then?”

Have children. Become a mother. But she couldn’t tell this beautiful almost-stranger that. “I worked accounts for my local branch of JojaCorp.”

“Ugh.” Haley was so disgusted she accidentally pulled Isla’s hair. “Sorry. That sounds terrible. No wonder you needed a change. And here’s a new change for you.” She tugged Isla to her feet, guided her to the mirror hanging in the hallway.

Isla gasped, hand going to her new style; curls that framed her face, highlighting her high cheekbones. “Oh,” she breathed. “Thank you. I look, I look...”

“Beautiful,” Haley concluded, sounding rather smug.


	32. The Tangled Truths We Weave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morris hasn't given up with his games of manipulation. Poor Shane is torn in so many directions.

Shane heaved the heavy box up onto the shelf in the storeroom, clenching his teeth as pain speared down his spine. He was getting too old for this kind of shit; his body was falling apart. Only a few days until he turned thirty. It felt so old, like the end of an era. If you’d asked him a year ago, he would’ve thought it impossible. It still surprised him, sometimes, that he’d made it through.

“Shane Cavanagh!” Morris’s voice barked from the side door, and Shane flinched as if struck. “My office, now!”

“What have you done now?” Sam asked him. “Did you have another fight with George again?”

Shane shrugged. “No idea.” His thoughts had been a turmoil. Of Isla. Of Morris. Of Jas and her nightmares. She’d whimpered and sobbed in her sleep, woken the next morning hollow-eyed and on edge, but unable to articulate why.

‘Something bad is coming,’ she’d said that morning, over her toast and eggs. ‘And I can’t stop it.’

Marnie had promised to take her to the clinic that afternoon, to talk to Harvey. But Shane should’ve been the one to take her – he was her uncle, her guardian, family – but he very much doubted Morris would permit him the time off (and hadn’t dared ask).

Yoba, what if something were seriously wrong?

“What is it, sir?” he asked, politeness forced through gritted teeth. “Is Jas okay?”

Morris frowned at him. “Jasmine is your daughter, correct?”

Shane forced out a nod. “My niece, sir. I’m her legal guardian. Has something happened?”

“I’m sure she’s fine,” Morris responded smoothly, and Shane felt the tension drain from his shoulders. “No, it is you I need to talk to, Mister Cavanagh. Please, come into my office.” He gestured, herding Shane up the stairs and into his office. Shane couldn’t stop himself from glancing at the photographs. They were gone. The desk was empty save for the little name-card.

“Please, have a seat.” Morris drew out the chair.

Creeping trepidation replaced fear. This was it, he was about to lose his job. Morris couldn’t fire him because he was friends with Isla, could he? There was probably some law against it. But... the manager probably had a hundred other bullets in his gun. 

“Please,” he began. I need this job. Marnie needed the rent money and he needed... he needed the booze; no-one else in town would employ a loser like him. He’d beg or bargain if he had to.

Morris walked around the desk, seated himself tidily in his chair. “I must apologize.” 

What the hell?

“I feel that I may have caused you some distress on Sunday. I was unaware that you and Isla had become so... close.” His smile was pure car salesman charm. “Thus, I owe you an explanation.”

Shane’s fingers gritted into the arm rests on the chair. 

Morris seemed to take silence is assent, and continued. “It is true that Isla is my wife but, as you may have guessed, we are undergoing a temporary separation.” His voice cracked a little. “There was a tragedy, last year, that tested our commitment to one another. Isla’s therapist recommended that she and I spend some time apart, and when she found that she’d inherited her grandfather’s farm, well, it seemed the perfect opportunity for her to heal in the country air.”

He was keeping eye contact, and the intensity of his gaze made Shane feel small and lowly.

“We agreed that after a few weeks, I would join her. Thus I requested a transferal to your local branch of JojaMart. Quite a demotion, really, but worth it – to help her heal.” 

Were those tears glinting in his eyes? Everything was becoming so twisted and tangled. Shane’s heart felt like it was icing over, shattering into tiny broken shards.

“I feel a little like I am betraying her trust, but I also feel that you need to know this.” Morris leaned forward. “Isla is ... not always honest, especially not to herself – and sometimes not to those she cares about. It makes things... challenging.”

Shane didn’t want to believe Morris, but he sounded so sincere. “What about the baby?” he croaked.

Morris blinked back tears. “His name was Nathaniel,” he said. “Our gift from Yoba. But... he died. Sometimes,” his eyes dropped down to his clenched hands, “sometimes it was like Isla wanted to forget he had ever existed. She refused to talk about it, refused to talk to me – to anyone – about him. And the rare times she did, she blamed herself.” 

“Fuck,” Shane swore beneath his breath. He’d know Isla had her shadows. But, this?

“Indeed.” He stood, pushed the chair back, and began to pace. “Isla is... troubled. She weaves stories to shield her from pain. She suffers... well, I hate to say it – delusions.” The monsters. But Shane had seen one, hadn’t he? (You were completely plastered, how much do you really remember – of anything – anymore?)

“And because you two are friends, I will warn you – be careful. She’ll try and draw you into her stories too.”

He’d had enough. This wasn’t part of his contract. He stood, pushed the chair back, eyes downcast. “Apology accepted. Now, I need to get back to work.”

“Thank you for listening,” Morris replied, stepping around and clasped his hand. His grip was firm, assertive, and Shane resisted the urge to break eye contact. Show no weakness. 

*

Walking home fast, hands in pockets, shoulders slouched. Shane heard a burst of laughter. That long-haired writer-snob from the beach. The gangly Fabio-look-a-like leaned against the edge of the stone bridge, chatting with ... was that Isla? The posture and the clothes screamed ‘yes’, but her hair – what had she done with her hair? She was so beautiful it made his heart ache.

Look away, keep walking. Shit, she’d seen him. Rose her hand and waved. He had to wave back, couldn’t snub her, not again. She said something, probably her farewells, to the writer-snob, who reached out and grabbed her shoulder, squeezed it. (What gave him the right to touch her?) Then she started walking towards him.

He forced his feet to stay in place, even took a few steps towards her, took pity on her limping. Her smile was wide, but her eyes were sad. Haunted.

“Shane,” she said, stopping at arm’s reach, her hands hanging limp at her side. He wanted to hug her, wrap her tight in his arms, squeeze her close. Never let her go (She doesn’t belong to you, she never has and never will).

“Isla,” he replied. “Um, sorry I haven’t – didn’t – drop by. Things, er, came up.” Fingers running through hair, nervously messing it. At this rate, he’d be bald by the time he was thirty-one. (If he made it that far).

“It’s okay,” Isla replied softly. “I’m sorry too.”

Sorry I didn’t come, or sorry you invited me? He didn’t dare ask. Wasn’t sure he really wanted to know the answer.

“You, err, look nice.” (She’s beautiful, stunning, magnificent – and the best you can come up with is ‘nice’? You really do suck.)

“Thanks.” The smile finally reached her eyes. “Haley has some pretty sweet skills.” She tugged on the ratty plaid shirt she was wearing today. “Hey, Marnie’s invited me over for dinner on Saturday. If that’s okay with you?”

“Of course, that sounds fine.” His heart kicked hard against his ribs. “Sorry, I’d better go – Jas hasn’t been well... I need to get home.”

“Oh, sorry! The poor kid. I hope she’s okay?” Yoba, how beautiful she was when she blushed. 

“She’ll be fine after a good night’s sleep,” he assured her, desperately hoping that was true. 

“Well, give her my love, and tell her I’ll see her on Saturday!” For a wonderful heartbeat, he thought she was going to kiss him, but she caught herself, shook her head, took a step back. “Goodbye Shane,” she whispered, and hobbled stiffly to her horse.

He watched her maybe a heartbeat or three longer than he should, then kicked himself. Jas needs you!


	33. Secret for a Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isla, Abigail and revelations.

“There you go girls.” Isla scattered seed and kitchen scraps across the floor. The two chickens greedily raced for it, clucking in excitement. Orchid had almost all her feathers now, was starting to plump out nicely. Her feathers still held that pinkish sheen, and Isla hoped she’d never fully lose it. She held out a handful of meal worms, their tickly little bodies no longer grossed her out. Bluebell darted forward, beak darted out to snap, snap, snap as many as she could before her companion bullied her way in. She let Isla tickle her belly, flapping her wings in what seemed like enjoyment. Meanwhile, Orchid sprang up to crash into Isla’s lap. They weren’t as affectionate as, say, Titus, but they certainly seemed to appreciate the attention.

“I bet Shane would love to see you again,” she said to them. Shane... it had been less than a week since he’d delivered the chickens, since she’d kissed him propositioned him, and been rejected, but it felt longer; his absence made the evenings seem long and lonely. She’d texted him yesterday, to ask after Jasmine (She’s fine, she’s sleeping. had come the rather curt response) and his birthday was in two days. She still hadn’t got him a present. If she’d had more warning she could have ordered something from the internet, but shipping anything would take at least seven days. He liked pizza, and beer, she knew – but Marnie was cooking dinner, so bringing pizza would be an insult to her, and beer... well, beer just seemed too easy, too cheap, and, given the fact most of the townsfolk seemed to regard to him as a ‘drunk loner’, she wasn’t too keen on enabling the label. She also wanted to get him something that felt kinda personal.

Maybe she should catch the bus into Grampleton tomorrow morning. She hadn’t visited it yet – and it would be nice to grab an Indian takeaway or something. Anything that wasn’t potatoes, leek or cauliflower. Maybe she could text Haley, see if she wanted to come along. And Elliott had said something about a slam poetry night or something similarly literary. She’d intended to decline – she’d only just met the guy, and it felt a little like he was asking her on a date, but still...it could be fun.

She’d received a text from Morris too. It said simply: Sorry.

She’d hit delete – and finally figured out how to block his number. It felt a little liberating, but the worry of bumping into him around town had never quite left her.

“Goodnight girls.” She blew a kiss to each hen. “Hope you’re planning on laying me some eggs soon.” Stood and exited the coop.

Abigail was sitting on her doorstep. Her make-up smudged, hair mussed. She looked frankly terrible, and was hugging a purple knapsack.

“Isla,” she said, desperation in her voice. “Please, you’ve got to help me.”

Isla was beside her in an instant, arms around her. Couldn’t bear the sorrow that surrounded her in a thick purple-grey haze. “What’s wrong?”

She sniffed, wiped a tear from her eye, smudging her eye shadow even further. “Father found out I’ve been visiting the wizard,” she said. “He and mom had the most terrible row. He knows, he knows everything.”

“Did he hurt you?” Eyes scanning her bare arms for bruises, face for cuts.

“No. Just... Just shouted a lot. Mostly at Mom. They were screaming so loudly. I... I couldn’t take it. I... I think I’ve ruined their marriage.”

Isla wrapped her arm around her. “Come on,” she said. “Come inside. I’ve got soup. It’s potato and leek, and it’s bloody terrible, but at least it will be warm.”

That, at least, earned a slight laugh. “Haven’t you learned how to cook yet?”

“Baked potatoes, sauteed leeks, yes. I can even make a decent stir fry. Soup... not so much. It’s pretty lumpy. ” She escorted Abigail inside, set the pot of soup up on the stove to boil, the kettle beside it, and joined her on the couch.

“Do you want to talk about it?” 

“No,” Abigail muttered. Then, “Yes.” Her shoulders shook. “The wizard – Rasmodius, I mean – is my father. My real father. I mean, I know I said I sometimes fantasized Pierre wasn’t my dad. But I hate that it’s actually true.” She blew her nose nosily, and a little messily, on one of the tissues. “I asked my mother, she said... Well, she’d married Pierre young, and they really wanted a family, but after three years of trying with no success... She’d heard there was a mystical ‘magic man’ in the woods that could help... Well, I guess the solution wasn’t quite what she expected.”

“Shit,” Isla muttered. “She um... He didn’t coerce her, did he?” Would she ever be able to face her uncle again, if that were the case?

Abigail let out a shaky laugh. “No, thank Yoba. I think she fell a little in love with him.”

“I guess he could be quite charming if he’s not trying to feed you vile tea. Has he offered you that yet?”

Abigail nodded. “Yuck, yes – but, I did ask for it. Why should you be the only one who can read the junimo’s runes? It’s fucking intense. I can feel... everything. And, from what I gather, Mom and, well, Dad, their relationship wasn’t too hot at the time. Guess that can happen, if you really want something, and it doesn’t work?”

“Yeah.” Isla jumped up to rescue the kettle, trying to hide the tears that had sprung to her own eyes. If Nathaniel had survived, would she and Morris still be together? And if so, would she be happy? 

Somehow, she didn’t think so.

“Hot chocolate?”

“Yes please. So, I guess it was easy for her heart to be swayed by a mysterious – and by all accounts, sexy – man. Ugh.” She scrubbed her eyes. “And when she fell pregnant, Dad was, of course, delighted. He never questioned for half a second that it – me – might not be his.” She reached into her pocket and drew out a pair of tiny silver earrings, set with blue stones. “Do you know what these are?”

Isla took one, turned it over in her hands. “Earrings?” But they were more than they appeared: she could feel a kind of dull hum, like it contained a very small swarm of bees. “Yes. A baby gift from Rasmodius. My mother had my ears pierced when I was six months old. They’re charmed, to make my hair light brown. So Pierre wouldn’t realize that his wife had cheated on him.” Bitterness had crept into her voice. “She made me live a lie. All this time... twenty-five bloody years, I’ve wasted. Ten years old, I started to wear more fashionable earrings. When Mom noticed, she persuaded me to dye my hair purple. Wasn’t hard – it was my favorite color. And it’s stayed that way ever since.” She took the earrings back from Isla. “They’re aquamarine,” she said. “His stone. Fuck, for all I know, he could’ve been using them to spy on me this whole time.”

She sipped her hot chocolate. “But that isn’t all,” she said. “There’s more fucking secrets too. Do you know who else came visiting here in 1993?”

Isla froze, feeling the faintest chill in the air. Like something, somewhere, was wakening. The shadow-creature in the wilderness corner, perhaps. No, something bigger, and darker, unfurling wings of shadow. “Who?”

“One Catriona Cavanagh,” she said. Her words choking in her throat. “Visiting, with her four-year old son. Some sort of dumb-ass artist retreat or something equally lame.” She paused, grabbed another tissue and began shredding it. “Mona was my goddamn sister.”


	34. Darkness in Paradise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abigail and Isla decide to get out of Pelican Town for a shopping trip in Grampleton.  
> (with special guest star, Elliot)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also includes a poetry slam, but whilst I'm fairly decent at writing, I haven't been able to write poetry since I was an angsty teenager. Originally contained the actual lyrics from the song this chapter is named after, and the new one is based off it.

“You really need a bigger bed,” Abigail grumbled. The two women had talked well into the night, fallen asleep side by side on the narrow bed and woken in a weird tangle of limbs.  
“Tell me about it.” Isla stretched. She could feel a few new bruises, Abigail was a restless sleeper. “Maybe we can look for one today, in Grampleton.”

“Nah,” Abigail returned. “Robin would be shattered if you didn’t ask her to build it. So we’re really going to Grampleton?”

She seemed brighter this morning, lighter. Secrets shared really did seem to lighten the burden. Why couldn’t Isla bring herself to share hers? She still cradled the memory of Nathaniel close to her, as though that could somehow protect him from the world.

“Definitely,” Isla replied. “I really need to find something to get Shane for his birthday. Oh, and I’ve got something for you – I really feel you should have it.” She padded, barefoot, across the floorboards, rummaged through the drawer and drew out the ‘M’ necklace. “This was Mona’s. I think you should have it – If you want it – or, we could give it to Jasmine. If you preferred.”

Abigail’s eyes widened, as Isla let it trail into her palms. As she felt Mona’s essence in it. Not her spirit, Isla was fairly certain that had been absorbed into Yoba’s light – or whatever the heck happened after death (hopefully not a ‘scary ghost’). 

“Thank you,” she breathed, hanging it around her neck. “I think I’ll wear it for a while – but it really belongs to Jasmine.” She sniffed away another sob. “I can’t believe I’m like her secret aunt.” She pondered for a moment. “That doesn’t mean we’re related to Shane, does it?”

“Unless Catriona visited five years prior, I think we’re good there.” Thank Yoba. She didn’t really want to find out she’d been lusting after her cousin.

“My whole life I wished I had a brother or sister,” Abigail continued. She rolled off the bed, stretching. “And my best friend was really my sister all along. It’s sad, don’t you think, that she never knew?”

“Maybe she did know, deep down.” Isla set the coffee brewing. “Yoba, my uncle was quite the player. Takes after my grandfather, by all accounts.”

“Your uncle,” Abigail returned. “He’s my father. Makes you wonder if there might be more of us.” She pondered this. “Yoba, I hope Sebastian isn’t.”

“Emo-kid? You know him?”

Abigail snorted. “Everyone knows everyone here, but yeah, he and Sam and I hang out together sometimes. Robin and Demetrius moved here just before Maru was born though, when he was, like, six, so it seems improbable.”

“You like him, don’t you?” Isla started stirring up their instant coffees. “Romantically, I mean.”

“Yeah, kinda. How did you guess?”

“I could feel it, like a flutter of nervous happiness, when you said his name. It’s freaking weird.”

“Hah, you don’t wanna know what it feels like when you say Shane’s name.” She ducked a thrown cushion. “It’s like a symphony of Yoba-blessed butterflies.”

“Really?”

Abigail nodded, barely hiding her laughter. “’Fraid so.”

Isla cursed, then laughed. It felt good to have someone she could share this weird shit with. Even if it meant they’d now be no secrets between them anymore. “What about Emily? She knows a lot about crystals and other new age spiritual stuff? And she and Haley are nothing alike.”

“Possible,” Abigail agreed. “Think he’d tell us, if we asked?”

“Dare you to. Anyhow, you wanna shower first? While I cook breakfast.”

Abigail groaned. “It’s not soup again, is it?”

“It’s hash browns,” she said. “With leek. Until the hens start laying, that’s the best you’re going to get.”

“I’m so looking forward to getting a massive, greasy, delicious take-out in Grampleton then.”

“Me too.” Isla tossed her a towel. “Please, can you try not to use all the hot water.”

*

Grampleton was a small, almost quaint town, situated higher in Stardew valley, surrounded by mountains and pine forest. Compared to Pelican Town, it felt like a bustling metropolis, even though most of the shops were clustered around half a mile of main street. The streets were lined with trees, the shop fronts adorned with hanging baskets of flowers. All the buildings were wooden.

“It’s a timber town,” Abigail explained. “Used to be a sister town to Pelican Town, back before they shut down the mines. They were cursed.” She made spooky gestures with her fingers.

“Yes,” Isla replied. “Tainted by the Void.”

“It’s less fun when it’s real,” Abigail muttered. “Hey, check this out.” She led Isla through an alleyway, past a few hanging signs (what the heck was ‘X-Rated Fudge’?) and to a little pink cottage. A sign outside identified it as “Victoria’s Vintage Emporium”. “Clothes!” Abigail clapped her hands in delight, guiding Isla in.

“We’re here to find a gift for Shane,” she mumbled. “Not to buy clothes.”

Clothes shopping was not something she’d enjoyed. The ex had vetoed most of her choices as either ‘too slutty’ or ‘weird’, leaving her basically dressing in blouses and dress paints for work, and jeans and oversized tees at home (the latter her little rebellion). The Vintage Emporium had none of these, just rooms and rooms filled with racks of clothes, mostly looking a little Bohemian or quaint, intermingled with taxidermied animals, manikins and equally vintage wares, such as sewing machines, and typewriters.

“Consider this a gift to Shane.” Abigail skipped along, flicking things along the racks. “You don’t want to go to his birthday party dressing like a tramp, do you?”

“I don’t dress like a tramp,” she scoffed. “Besides, it’s not a party – it’s just a dinner invite. He doesn’t do parties, right? And I’m not really sure he’s that into me, you know.”

“What, cos he got cold feet? Ooh, this one’s cute.” A short dress, with a laced collar, pleated skirt, and printed with delicate dandelions.

“I invited him over for sex.” Isla blushed at the memory. “I wasn’t exactly subtle. He never showed. I think that gives a fairly clear message.”

“I still say you need to talk to him. He could be a virgin for all you know. Now, go and try this one, I command thee!” She thrust the dress into Isla’s arms.

Isla sighed. “Only if you try on... this one.” She drew a ridiculously frilly pink outfit from the rack and passed it to Abigail. 

Her cousin’s eyes gleamed.“Deal!”

*

Isla had to admit it, her cousin had great taste. The dress suited her – and, thankfully, had long sleeves. She twirled in front of the full length mirror.

“You look super-cute!” Abigail clapped her hands in delight. “You’ve gotta buy it. What do you think of mine?” It was a ridiculous concoction of layered taffeta and lace.

“You look like a fairy marshmallow.” Isla chuckled. 

Abigail grinned back. “I do, don’t I.”

A low, long whistle came, and both heads turned. It was that far-too-pretty fellow from the beach: Elliott, the poet/writer. 

“Greetings, fairest of maidens,” he announced, dropping into a half-bow.

Isla tried not to laugh, not at Elliott (although his pretentiousness was bordering on ridiculous), but at Abigail, making fake gagging motions just out of his line of sight. He was looking especially dandy today, in his long burgundy dress-coat (despite the relative warmth of the day) and an emerald shirt with lace at the throat.

“Hello,” she managed to choke out. “What are you doing here?”

“Same as you, I expect,” he replied. “To attend the slam poetry evening. Are you intending to participate?”

“No, just spectate,” Abigail replied. “And I’d better get out of this monstrosity.” She darted back into the changing room.

“I feel that you have a poetic soul,” Elliott informed Isla. He took a step towards her. She took a step back, into the embrace of a seven-foot grizzly bear. It wobbled, but she managed to steady it before its top hat fell off. 

“Nope, all practicalities, that’s me,” she replied. There seemed something a little off about Elliott. Like his pompous demeanor was his mask.

“Pity,” he said. “Can I treat you two lovely ladies to a coffee?”

“No thanks.” Abigail breezed out of the dressing room, hooked Isla’s arm with her own. “We’ve got a date with an extra-hot curry, then we need to shop until we drop. But we’ll see you at the poetry slam, right?” She tugged Isla away.

“Don’t fall for his foppish charm,” she hissed in Isla’s ear as soon as they were almost out of earshot. “Rumor has it he came to Pelican Town to avoid a paternity suit.”

“Really? He told me he came for the peace and quiet and inspiration for his ‘great masterwork’. I asked him what it was about, and he asked me what sort of books I liked.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Science-fantasy with a hint of romantic mysticism.” 

Abigail snorted a laugh. “What the hell is that?”

“Not sure, but I’m certainly looking forward to reading it.”

“Right.” Abigail turned practical again. “I’m famished. Let’s buy this dress and get something to eat.” She rose her hand. “No, don’t get changed – it’s far more Bohemian-chic.”

“Do you even know what that means?” 

“Not a clue. But you look adorable.”

*

Two hours, one tikka masala, and a few too many poppadoms later, the two women returned to the strip, hunting the elusive birthday gift idea. Nothing seemed quite right. Damn, men were hard to buy for. Artisan chocolate? no. Naughty fudge? Hell no. A cuckoo clock? Cute but impractical (maybe if it had a chicken inside it).

“You know what,” Abigail declared with a sigh. “Why don’t you buy him something you can share with him – a book or a board game, or a movie, or something.” They had stopped in front of the last shop, revealed, by the hand-painted sign on rusty metal chains, to be ‘The Last Chapter’, a combination coffee-and-book store. Also, the location for the poetry slam. She grabbed Isla’s arm. “I know, you could buy him a copy of your favorite book! Then, if he didn’t like it, you’d know he totally wasn’t right for you.”

Isla blinked. “That’s actually a good idea.” If only she knew what her favorite book actually was.

Abigail feigned hurt. “I have them sometimes, you know,” she said, mock-punching Abigail “They’ve got DVDs too, and you’ve got a player, right? You could find a movie – something romantic – and watch it together? Come on.” She seized Isla’s hand and dragged her inside.

Ah, the smell of second-hand books, that fine, musty fragrance. Abigail immediately darted off into one of the corners, where the roof was so low that taller people would’ve had to duck, and where bookcases nestled beneath the eaves.

“Fantasy?” Isla asked. “How did you know?”

She laughed. “I checked out your bookcase while you were in the shower. Not nearly enough demi-human erotica for my liking, but, well, you can’t ask for everything in a friend. What do you prefer, werewolves or vampires?”

Isla pondered the question. “Um… humans?”

“Pah, boring. Vampires all the way. Sexy creatures of the night.” She grabbed a couple of books off the shelf and collapsed into an alcove filled with cushions. “I’ll be here when you need me.”

*

“Ah, my fair ladies!” Elliott’s voice boomed out, thick and smooth – and twice as cloying – as honey.

Isla felt his presence jolt down her spine, she barely noticed as the sales clerk slipped her purchases into a paper-bag and handed it to her with her change. Somewhere along the way, Elliott had acquired a top-hat (maybe the one that had previously belonged to the bear), and a cane with its handle carved into a howling wolf.

“Isla, Abigail,” he nodded at both of them in turn, then swept his way into the cafe. Bag clutched to her chest, Isla followed. What was a poetry slam? She’d never been to one, or any sort of literary event (‘bunch of fancy pansies exposing their neuroses to the world’ Morris had said, the one time she ever expressed an interest). They picked up hot drinks (chai, with soy) and a couple of brownies (vegan and wheat-free their label proclaimed – yet surprisingly delicious), before seating themselves upon beanbags. Isla rested her injured ankle; it was starting to remind her that it hadn’t yet fully healed.

The poetry began. The first was terrible: stuttering his way through a series of increasingly bawdy limericks, before finally retreating under a barrage of balled-up napkins.

The second was better: she offered up a poem of epic proportion, detailing a forbidden love that, eventually, concluded in tragedy.

Then Elliott took the ‘stage’ (or rather, the pallet covered by a tattered rug)

He bowed, cast his eyes across the audience: now about two dozen strong, mostly female, with a handful of men (at least two of which looked very sheepish at being there). “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began. His eyes alighted on Isla and Abigail, twinkling mischievously. “From near and afar. I present to you, ‘A beautiful gift’.” He rose himself tall, and began:  
“From the brightest winter star, to a fragrant fairy rose… nothing can compare with her captivating beauty...”  
The poem went on for at least twenty verses, each dripping in metaphor and more nauseatingly sentimental than the last. Partway through, he winked at Isla, sending an ice cold shiver down her spine (was he flirting with her?), before finally, he concluded:  
“... for she is not simply a beautiful gift... she is a beautiful gift with hidden meaning. And now I have found her, I will remain with her ... until the end of time – and forever.”  
And dropped low in a flamboyant bow, to polite – albeit slightly bored – applause.

“Very poetic,” Abigail whispered. “Certainly felt like forever.” She barely masking a yawn and glanced at her phone. “We should go. The last bus home leaves in twenty minutes.”

Isla nodded, was about to extract herself from the beanbag, when the next speaker took the stage. Something about the slender young man, resplendent in a suit jacket over a blood-red waistcoat, sparked a shiver down her spine. She was sure she’d never seen him before – yet there seemed something eerily familiar about him.

He kept his head low as he stepped delicately onto the pallet-stage. Long, lank black hair framing his face, his black-lined eyes like dark hollows in his pallid skin.

“This poem,” he said, “was inspired by a dream.” He paused, gave a small, slightly awkward cough, and began.

“Alone, I stand in this most peaceful of lands.” 

His voice was low, melodious. Almost haunting.

“Watch the shadows of night grow ever closer.” 

Rose his head, dark-shadowed eyes skimmed the audience. 

“The birds have flown south, they never will return...”

He drew his lips back into a feral grin. 

“...and rain shall fall forever.” 

His voice deepened. No, it was as though another voice had joined his, lower, deeper, speaking in exact synchronicity.

“There will be no last dawn...”

Had someone cranked up the air-con? Icy tendrils danced up Isla’s spine. She hugged her shopping bags to her chest.

“...as darkness takes reign.” he growled. Stared straight at them. His eyes were black pits, his smile held dark glee. 

Abigail grabbed Isla’s forearm. Her fingers dug in to the tender, semi-healed skin. “Let’s go,” she whispered. “I can’t...” She was shaking. Isla reached for her pocket, for her amethyst, but there was no pocket – her jeans were neatly folded into her shopping bag. She slipped sideways out of the beanbag, backed up, almost crawled, to the door.

The poet’s voice followed them, all trace of the young man gone, now all deep and filled with shadows. 

“And with death of light, I will await, my time to rise.”

“What the fuck was that?” Isla ventured when they were outside, the golden glow of sunset illuminating the sky. “Creepy acoustics or what?” She didn’t believe that for one heartbeat, was trying to explain it all with science because the alternative terrified her.

Abigail clutched Isla, leaning into her, burying her head in her hair. Fuck, she was shaking so hard. And the necklace… Mona’s necklace glowed with a faint incandescence. 

“Isla,” Abigail’s voice wobbled. “Isla… That… Fuck… That kid he...” She swallowed hard, forced the words out. “He looks exactly like Jasper.”


	35. Breaking Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shane's birthday does not go quite as planned.

“And you’re absolutely sure that Jasper is dead?” She’d been pondering it all night, and now, that sunrise had come, bringing with it a crisp, clear morning, felt more comfortable to mention it. The dire prophecy had not come through. Darkness had not yet fallen.

“His mother seemed pretty confident. I mean, it wasn’t a pretty sight, from all accounts – not that I saw him.”

“Wait, I thought he was one of the ranch kids?” Isla poured water over the strawberries, a lot of it dripping over her hands. She really needed to get her can fixed.

“They weren’t all orphans,” Abigail said. “His father was an archaeologist, I think. He disappeared – died, we guessed. And his mother couldn’t cope. Spend all her days downing Valium and watching soap operas. So, they took him away, put him in foster care for a bit. Him and his little brother, Marcus.”

“They lived in Grampleton?”

“Still do, I guess. After Jasper died, Marcus went back to live with his mother. Could’ve been him, he’d be about 18 by now. Probably was. Dunno why I was so shit-scared. Sorry about that.” Abigail popped a strawberry into her mouth. “Jasper was obsessed with the mines. Every chance he got, he’d drag Mona down them. Came back spouting wild theories of dwarfs and goblins, shadow-people and living skeletons.”

Isla grabbed her hand before she could eat another strawberry. “Please,” she said, “a pound of those is worth at least 120g. You’re eating my income.”

“Sorry.” Abigail blushed. “Anyway, Uncle Marlon says the skeletons are real – he’s seen them, and fought them – and we’ve met a shadow-person.”

“Rasmodius called it a Void spirit,” Isla pointed out.

“Living shadow. Same diff, right? I wonder if the rest is real, the dwarfs and stuff? I’m gonna find out, if that’s alright with you? Marlon’s promised to take me into the mines today, we’re gonna try out my swordsmanship on some of those slime things. And I’ll crash with him tonight. Have fun at your party, okay? Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” She grinned wickedly, gave an exaggerated wink. “Don’t worry, that gives you a lot of leeway.”

The house felt almost lonely. Isla hadn’t realized how comfortable in company she had become. It really was beginning to feel like home. She saddled Hercules, and rode into town, to sell the strawberries and a few more cauliflower and parsnips. Pierre, with a sour frown, asked when Abigail might stop sulking and come home again. Isla had to admit she didn’t know. Couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry for the cuckolded shopkeeper. Even if he’d scowled at her. She’d taken the money this time – if Abigail was planning on staying around, she’d definitely need a bigger bed – or a more comfortable couch.

Long hot shower – luxurious, having all the hot water to herself – and dressed for dinner. She’d shaved her legs, attempted (with some success) to style her hair, and even applied a bit of the cheap makeup she’d purchased yesterday. Then wiped it off again; she looked like a clown. 

“Right,” she told her reflection. “You’re going to head over there now, and you’re going to have fun.” If only the nervous butterflies in her stomach would calm down...

*

Jasmine answered the door. “You look like a princess,” she declared.

“As do you,” Isla replied. The girl wore a light blue party-dress, with delicate embroidery and a large bow. Her dark hair hung in pigtails, secured with blue butterfly hair-clips. “A fairy princess. And you know what, I have just the thing to go with your dress.” She handed Jasmine the small wrapped bundle. She’d seen it in one of the stores and been unable to resist.

“Thank you.” Jasmine blushed, accepting the parcel. “But it’s not my birthday.”

“Friends can give their friends gifts whenever they like,” Isla declared. “Open it.”

Smile threatening to split her face in two, Jasmine ripped over the pretty pink wrapping paper. “Oooh, a magic wand!”

Isla grinned. It was hand-carved, painted light purple, and had ‘Jasmine’ written on it in flowing script. 

“I love it!” She waved it, colored ribbons trailing, and skipped around Isla, guiding her into the dining room. “Come in Miss Isla. This is your seat.” She gestured with the wand at the neatly laid table.

“Where’s everyone else?”

“In here,” Marnie’s voice rang out from the kitchen. “Shane’s getting dressed.” He wasn’t, not yet – Isla could hear the shower running. 

“Am I too early?”

Jasmine drew herself up into the chair beside Isla. “Of course not,” she said. “They’re just late. Would you like me to tell you a story, while we wait?”

“Sure. Unless there’s some way I can help in the kitchen?” she called out to Marnie.

“Entertain Jas!” the rancher called back.

“Right, let’s hear it then.”

The story seemed to involve a fairy princess, and a talking cat, and possibly a unicorn, getting together to have an adventure that felt more disjointed than Elliott’s poem. They were just escaping in a spaceship from goblin pirates, when Shane entered the room. He was wearing that blue button-up shirt again, clean shaven. Jasmine stopped mid-sentence, darting across the floor to grab him by the hand and direct him to the seat she had chosen for him, which put him directly opposite Isla. His hair hung damp, curling in gentle waves. One curl had escaped and hung across his forehead, tantalizing Isla to reach across the table and lift it back in place, maybe plant a kiss upon his shy smile at the same time.

“Happy birthday Shane.” Isla’s voice cracked a little on his name. Her belly butterflies, sedated by Jasmine’s tale, now sprung back to bustling life. She stood up, handing him the gift bag across the table. “I hope you like it.” Eyes downcast, unable to meet his gaze, although she could feel his gaze upon her. She’d added a few other items to the bag, and he lifted out each bundle, setting it on the table and unwrapping it with careful reverence. Isla had used some of the newspapers bundled by her fireplace for wrapping paper, bound them with twine. 

She’d conceded her ‘no alcohol’ rule enough to buy some beer-flavored chocolates, and he rose his eyebrows at the ‘cosmic bliss’ fudge – one of the least naughty of the range, then chuckled at the ridiculous drinking bird toy – well, it did look a little like a chicken.

“Oh,” he remarked, unwrapping the DVD. “I don’t know this one.” He looked faintly puzzled. “Is this for Jasmine?”

Jasmine, leaning on the table, grinned. “‘The Princess Bride’,” she read. “It sounds wonderful, can we watch it tonight, please?”

“My mother loved it,” Isla replied. “And it’s one of my favorites. If you don’t like it, I hope Jas does.” Dammit, why did it matter, that he love that movie as much as she did? It was just a stupid film.

The book, at least, elicited a genuine smile. “Oh, I’ve been meaning to read this for a while. Jas loved the movie.”

“It had sky pirates,” Jasmine exclaimed. “And a unicorn. Although that bit was sad. But it was awesome. Can you read me the book, Isla? You could come over, read me a chapter every night?”

“Maybe,” Isla conceded. Or a more age-appropriate version, anyway. Not the response she’d been hoping for, but then again, what had she expected? Why would a thirty-year old man be interested in romantic fantasy? Abigail, your idea sunk. Should’ve just stuck with the latest Patterson.

“Thank you.” Shane reached across the table, grabbed her hand, squeezed it. She met his gaze then, felt herself melt a little beneath the warmth in his indigo eyes, the glint of tearful gratitude.

Shit Isla, she scolded herself, you’ve got it bad. “I hope you like them,” she said, breaking the gaze to study the back of his hand.

Marnie bustled in then, oven-mitted hands wrapped around a dish. “Stuffed pepper casserole,” she declared, setting it on the table. Shane snatched his hand back as though she’d caught them doing something wrong, letting it drop into his lap.

It was nice to be part of a family again, Isla realized. Her own parents… well, their marriage had fractured soon after hers began – it seemed monogamy was not a family trait. And her relationship with her mother had crumbled when Nathaniel died. Oh, she’d never said she blamed Isla – just implied strongly that, had she stayed at home after marriage, been the dutiful housewife, perhaps the whole wretched tragedy could’ve been avoided.

Would they still welcome you, if they knew the truth? the little voice in her head forever nagged. He shared Mona with you, don’t you owe him your trust? She blinked back tears, Jasmine seemed to sense something was amiss, and squeezed her arm.

“It’s okay,” she whispered.

Did she have the empathy too? She was Mona’s daughter, Rasmodius’s grand-daughter, after all.

A quiet rap at the door sent Jasmine leaping to her feet, and dashing for the door. “He’s here!” 

“Jas, who’s here?” Marnie asked, but the girl didn’t answer. There came the click of the door opening, then closing again. A heartbeat later, a large ginger feline padded into the dining room, jumped up on the empty seat, and tucked his tail neatly around his feet. 

Jasmine scampered back, scrambling in her seat. “Now,” she declared. “We’re all here, it’s time to eat.”

The pepper casserole was delicious, and not too spicy, although Shane sprinkled his liberally with extra chilli. Marnie was, very sensibly, reluctant to have a cat eat at her table, but dished some canned salmon into a bowl. Jasmine set it next to the fireplace.

It was, perhaps, the best meal Isla had tasted in a long while. “I need the recipe,” she declared.

Marnie grinned. “And you shall have it, my dear. And when summer rolls around, you should definitely consider planting some chilli seeds.” 

“Yeh,” Jasmine chirped up. “Grow those, and Shane’ll love you forever.” 

Brief, awkward silence. Shane studied his empty plate. Isla glanced at Jasmine, saw the mischievous grin on the girl’s face. Oh, the devious little lass – she knew exactly what she’d said.

Isla swallowed, tried to catch Shane’s eye, but he neatly evaded her gaze. “Well, how can I resist that?” she said. “I just hope Pierre sells the seeds.” The flush blooming across Shane’s face was a delight to behold.

Marnie scooped up the dishes. “Jas, why don’t you pull out a board game, while I get the cake sorted.”

Jas scampered off to rummage through the games cupboard, leaving Isla and Shane alone. Well, almost. 

“Mirrup.” A large ginger missile landed neatly – if a little heavily – on the table, sniffing his way across the tablecloth.

“Titus, get down,” Isla hissed. “You’re making me look bad.” 

The cat flicked the tip of his tail. As if he cared. Shane reached out to scoop him up. Isla was about to warn him that the cat had a mind of his own, and used both teeth and claws to express his opinion. But Titus went limp in his arms, nestled his head up under Shane’s chin and purred loudly enough to make the glasses vibrate.

“I guess he likes me.” Shane’s eyes were smiling, honored to be the one chosen by the cat.

Isla couldn’t help but feel a little jealous, although she wasn’t sure of whom – Shane or Titus? Could go either way.

Better fill the silence. Conversation. Small talk, yes. Try some of that. “How’s work?” she blurted out. Fuck no, not that! His expression darkened. Great way to ruin a lovely evening, Isla, bring up something you know he hates. Maybe… there’s still time to save this… “I mean, the chickens – how are they? Did you find homes for the rest? Bluebell and Orchid are doing great. No eggs yet though. Any day now, right?” She forced herself to stop babbling, to actually look at him.

He studied her over Titus’s ears. She saw him visibly swallow, his muscles tense, and sensed that she wasn’t going to like what he was about to say, but was unable to stop it.

“Your husband isn’t too bad,” he said. “Now I’ve gotten to know him.” He paused for a moment, blinking furiously, as though trying to hold back tears. “He told me about Nathaniel.”

And Isla felt the world crumble beneath her.


	36. A Handful of Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's about to get weird...

“Well, you fucked that up royally, didn’t you,” Shane muttered darkly to his reflection. She’d looked so damned beautiful in that short black dress, made comments about growing chili peppers, just so she could cook for him. He wanted, so badly, to believe that she might actually care for him. Even though he was a worthless drunk.

She’d given him the opening, and he had broken through it, dropped all the bombshells at once. He’d wanted her to deny everything, or at least to explain. He wanted, so badly, to cast Morris as the villain of the piece. The stalker ex-husband, desperate for a reconciliation, whatever the cost. But… Morris had charisma, and charm – and money. Why would anyone walk away from that, and into his arms?

The arms of a prospect-less nobody.

But she hadn’t said a word. 

She’d just looked at him as though… as though he had shattered her soul into a thousand pieces and scattered them into the storm. And he knew that was how she felt, because that was how he felt. Broken. No, not broken, annihilated.

But you couldn’t unsay what had already been said.

And there was no coming back from the truth.

She’d stood up, left the house. Her eyes wet with tears.

And he knew, without any shade of a doubt, that he’d completely, and irrevocably, fucked everything up.

He would’ve followed her, but there was nothing he could say. 

Nothing he could do, except assure Jas that everything was all right, that she’d just had to go home, some sort of farm emergency.

Jas knew he was lying. Marnie knew he was lying. Both knew that he had yet another failure to add to a very long list.

*

Isla gave the horse his head, let him run as fast and as hard as they dared, back towards the farm. It was late evening, the sky still a deeper shade of twilight. She’d failed. Kept everything bottled inside, forgetting that others knew her secrets, and had no qualms at spilling them. 

Her hands itched for blood, but the thought of carving her own flesh just didn’t seem to satisfy. She wanted to hunt Morris down (to crouch over him, push the blade against the fluttering pulse of his throat. Fuck. No. Was she psychotic?). 

She drew Hercules to a stop in front of her porch, hobble-ran inside and grabbed the sword. 

Tonight, something dark lurked in the ruins of the greenhouse, and she was going to make it pay.

The slime in the greenhouse put up a hell of a fight, but not as much as the bat that swooped on her near the barn, when she secured Hercules away. The horse screamed and reared, eyes flashing whites. Arms on his reins, tugging and heaving, she wrestled him through the door, and into his stall. Even inside, with the door closed against the monsters, he refused to relax. She stroked his face and neck, whispered and sobbed into his mane. Still, he stomped restlessly, saliva frothing from his mouth. Her taint was rubbing off on him. Hercules, the sweetest, gentlest horse she could ever have asked for, and she was destroying him.

The creatures outside weren’t the monsters. She was.

The monster that had doomed her own child.

The monster that had killed her marriage.

The shadow in the wilderness corner beckoned, and she left the poor horse, shivering in his stall. The wind howled through the trees. Lighting crackled across the sky, and somewhere far off in the distance, thunder rumbled.

A storm was coming.

Amethyst clutched in one hand, sword in the other, Isla advanced into the wild corner of her farm. Felt the shadows reach out for her, long and dark and cold.

Lies, they whispered. Your life is made of lies.

You cannot escape us.

We are forevermore.

The dark depths of the lake glistened, lightning dancing jagged scars across its surface, and Isla poised on the edge.

How easy it would be, to just let herself go. To just fall forward, into the dark, endless embrace.

Feel the shadows close over her, dragging her down. The fish, nibbling, tasting, teasing, feasting on her flesh.

Rain fell, sheets of water descending from the sky.

She spread her arms, closed her eyes and rose her face to the stars.

Then let herself go.

“Hello Isla.” A deep, low voice, no, not one voice – many voices – all speaking in unity. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

Shadows wrapped around her, their touch gentle, like the most delicate of silk, they caressed her naked skin, tasted the droplets of water coalesced upon her. Smooth, cold rock beneath her knees. The runes on her belly ached like a thousand tiny pinpricks.

“Where am I?” her voice came in a hoarse croak, wobbly with fear.

“The castle at the heart of the abyss,” the voices replied. “You are ours now.”

Was this… death? The Void? Isla didn’t feel dead – her body ached all over, from the throb of the runes to the burning sting from the slime’s ichor.

A hand brushed hers, and she looked up into eyes that held the universe, fathomless and black. A narrow face, framed with tangled brown curls. An obsidian band upon his forehead, from which a black opal glinted.

“Jasper?” she whispered.

He smiled then. “So you know me, Isla Alexander, heir to the wizard, Roland Alexander, protector of Stardew Valley. Rise!” His fingers were cool against hers, soft but firm, jerking her to her feet. Shadows wrapped around her ankles, her arms, weaving tight bands of darkness. She tried to move. Couldn’t. Tried to cover herself, but the shadows curled up her legs. She clenched her thighs tight. Tried to hold back the creeping black fingers. Her left hand, clenched, something hard pressing against her palm. The amethyst.

“You brought Mona here,” she whispered. Here, to this dark castle deep below the earth. Stone walls, turrets, narrow-slit windows. “This is where you...”

“Where I fucked her, yes.” Jasper’s smile was somehow both sweet and sinister. “And planted my seed within her.” He sighed, low and deep and filled with longing. “She loved me, you know. And I her. Despite the darkness. We were happy. Until...” his lips drew back revealing teeth, pointed like a shark’s, like the mutant bat Titus had dragged in. “Until Monsieur Roland interfered. Until he wrenched us apart.”

“He killed you,” Isla whispered. “On the night of the storm. He hunted you down, and killed you.”

“Yes.” Jasper’s smile held nothing but dark menace. “But death only makes us stronger, Isla Alexander.” He reached for her, trailed his finger between her breasts, face impassive. As one might stroke a sculpture, or a piece of fine art. As he neared the runes encircling her belly-button, the stinging amplified, blood beginning to drip from the cuts. “You know what it’s like to bleed, don’t you, Isla Alexander.”

“Stop saying my name,” she growled. Blue light leaked between her fingers, radiated from the runes. With a startled hiss, Jasper drew back, cradling his hand to his chest. His fingertips bruised and black. “You have no power over me.” Isla grew bolder, the amethyst’s rays brighter. The shadow tentacles drew back, whipped away into darkness. 

Repeated: “You. Have. No. Power. Over. Me.”

Pain. Sharp and devouring, from deep within. A wrenching, like she was being torn apart, then put back together by inept hands.

Then...

It was over...

Wind rattled the windows and rain clattered down on the roof. There was softness beneath her – she lay, sprawled, on her bed. Naked, sheets tangled around her, soaked with water, stained with blood. The dress, a crumpled heap on the floor beside her, stained and torn. Like a corpse. The death of innocence.

It had all been a dream? A terrible nightmare.

Or was it?

The amethyst, no longer clutched in her hand, but its imprint still remained.

Isla was surprised to find she could stand. Everything ached. Her ankle pulsed with pain. She staggered into the shower, cranked the heat on full. The scalding water revealed a multitude of bruises, gashes, and burns. She ran her fingers around the runes. They had saved her, protected her from… him. Jasper Thomas. What was he? The obsidian band, the castle at the heart of the abyss.

A prince of the Void?

Towel around her waist, dressing gown wrapped tight about her, Isla fished out her grandfather’s notebook. Found the story. She’d dismissed it, initially, as nothing but a dark fable, a faerie tale. But now, now she wasn’t so sure.

She turned on the bedside light, basked in its pool of radiance.

And began to read.


	37. The Abyss of the Void: Teaser

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A morning phone call brings with it distressing news. 
> 
> (Game spoiler alert: Shane's 6-heart event)

Her phone trilled out, vibrating back and forth across the couch. Marnie, on the other end, voice frantic. “Is Shane with you?”

“No.” Isla felt her heart plummet. “What’s happened?”

“It’s Jas. She’s frantic. Been crying and screaming. Talking about shadows and dark princes. And… we can’t find Shane anywhere. After you... left ... last night, he read Jas her bedtime story, then went to bed. This morning, he left for work. Said he’d been called in, some sort of emergency. I’ve tried his cell phone, but no answer. Rang JojaMart, and the manager said he wasn’t there. There was no emergency.”

Shit.

“I can’t leave, can’t go looking for him. There’s no-one to stay with Jas, and she’s… I might have to take her to Harvey. I’ve never seen her like this. It’s like...” 

It’s like Mona all over again. Isla could almost hear her thoughts. Feel the pain of this woman who had given so much of herself. “I’m on my way,” she said. No matter that she ached all over, both body and soul. A little girl needed her. And Shane too – if it wasn’t already too late.

“Please.” Marnie’s voice now a hoarse whisper. “I can’t lose him too.”

*

Hercules nickered in greeting, butted her with his head. Either he’d forgotten the terrors of the night before, or he sensed the panic rising in her and sought to calm her. She saddled him in record time, led him from the stable and mounted using a tree stump. The rain had calmed to a drizzle, but the horse had to skirt around broken branches and splash through large puddles. Her farm was a mess of debris. 

“Once there were a man and a woman, and they were happy, and in love -- but there was one thing that would’ve made their life more complete – ”

The prince’s story haunted her. A tale of tragedy and deceit. A man who had sold his soul to the abyss, so that his wife might bear a child.

“– a child born of shadows and darkness – ”

There was no darkness in Jasmine, she was just a frightened child, huddled against Marnie on her bed. Her hands threaded through Titus’s ginger fur,. The cat, purring, purring, not because he was content, but to quell the panic that thrummed through her veins. Jasmine looked up as Isla entered, her face wet with tears. “The shadows have come for him,” she whispered. “The Void devours.” The voice was hers, but the words were not.

Marnie looked up at Isla, her face helpless. “I’ve called Lewis,” she whispered. “But he can’t help. Fell, during the storm last night. Twisted his hip. Don’t know who else to call.”

“Abigail?” Isla realized. Pulled out her phone. Abigail would come – thank Yoba she’d finally gotten the woman’s number. Shane missing. Any idea? Check Mountain lake?

The response came quicker than she’d dared hope.

Wilco. Try Cindrsap. Hat mouse.

Isla nodded. “I’m going to find him,” she said. Leaned over, kissed Jasmine on the forehead. “Do you trust me?”

Big blue eyes stared up at her, wide with fear, but something else gleamed in them now. Hope. Jasmine nodded. “Please,” she whispered. 

Isla hugged her, hugged Marnie. 

“–And they named their son, Treasure, for he was precious – ”

Spurred the horse on, south, past the lake, towards “The Mad Hatters”. The forest was a tangled maze of broken branches. Hercules slowed to a trot, navigating around them. She couldn’t force him on, couldn’t risk him stumbling in one of the many potholes, breaking an ankle.

There, footprints in the mud, water seeping in, distorting them.

“ – but the Void dwelt in his heart –”

The ruined building appeared between the trees. 

“ – And no matter how much his parents loved him, he could never let it go – ” 

She could sense him. Subdued and broken. A wounded beast that had crawled to the edge of the abyss, intent to die alone. Snapped out her phone, thumbed a text to Abigail.

U right. Help. Pls.

Saw him, a forlorn mound at the top of the cliffs. The Gem Sea a glistening, raging void beyond. Frothing waves, lurking beneath dark and ominous clouds. Slid from Hercules’s back. Ran. Ignored the throb in her ankle. Dropped down to his side, grabbed his hand.

His skin was so cold, so clammy. His grip limp.

“Shane,” she whispered. Unable to hide the pain in her voice, the tears that slipped down her cheeks. “Please be okay.” She dropped beside him, drew his head into her lap. Pressed her hands against his cheeks. Eyes fluttered. Thank Yoba. Opened. Blinked, as he fought to bring her into focus. Was he drunk? The ground was littered with broken bottles and cans, but most looked ancient.

“Isla,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. I… I had to come out here… I just feel so… useless. So helpless. Like a piece of soiled garbage, blown in the wind. Everything – everyone – is just slipping away from me. My memories… I don’t even know what’s real anymore.”

Isla couldn’t help but give a small, sad laugh at that. No humor in it. But that was exactly how she felt. Like everything she tried to control was shadows, and trickled through her fingers.

“I’ve a darkness inside ... and it’s consuming me,” he whispered.

She stroked his hair. Shivered a little. He wasn’t even wearing a coat. Just his stupid work uniform.

“When I first came here,” he whispered. “After… After everything went to hell, I used to imagine just rolling off the cliffs, letting the ocean carry me away. Like this was one way I could control my life… Don’t tell Marnie,” he added. “She’d kill me if she knew.” He began to laugh, a raw and broken sound. “But why… Why should I go on?”

Because Jas needs you, Isla wanted to say. But knew that wasn’t a good enough reason, not in his head. In his head, Jasmine would be better off without him, with Marnie to guide her, to love her, as she had loved so many other forgotten children. He was just the idiot who was screwing her up. Because I need you, wasn’t right either. It sounded too selfish, for a start. You couldn’t go on living for other people – you needed to go on living for yourself.

“The choice is yours, and yours alone,” she whispered in his ice-cold ear. “Just know that I’m here for you, Shane.”

“Thanks,” he whispered. “I appreciate that… I’m sorry I didn’t trust you, Isla.”

I’m the one who should be sorry, she thought. I’m the one who took, but never gave any of myself.

“I… I think… I should get to the clinic,” he rasped. Tried to stand. Failed. His skin felt like ice. She wasn’t sure how she got him up, half carried him to Hercules. Somehow managed to heave him over the horse’s back. Guided the patient horse through the fallen branches, shattered fragments of trees. A truck waited for them outside Marnie’s – thank Yoba – and hands to help haul him from the horse, and into the flatbed. Blankets under him, thrown over him, Marlon at the wheel. Abigail leaping out to throw her arms around her.

“You’re so cold!” 

Marnie ushered her inside, bade Abigail lead Hercules into the barn,dry him, calm him, settle him into a stall. Isla was pushed into the bathroom, urged to remove her damp clothes, to step into the shower. The warmth seeped through her skin, warmed her to her bones.

Later, she huddled in a blanket on the couch, Jasmine curled up against her, her face peaceful in sleep. Marnie pressed a bowl of soup into Isla’s hands.

“Should I have gone with him?” she whispered. 

Marnie shook her head. “No Isla,” she said, her voice low. “Shane must find the light within himself. We can offer guidance, and support, but this is one battle he must fight alone.” She ran her fingers through Isla’s hair, towel-dried and messy. “Otherwise, he could drag you down too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm working through another 'fic atm, called "Harmony" that covers four decades (1987-2019), and overlaps with this one. Therefore, there may be a few minor back edits as I adjust the timelines accordingly.
> 
> It focuses on Marnie's story, and will give further insight into 'the Ranch' and Shane and Mona's background. It's not entirely canon (and risks being contradicted when 1.4 is released) but I hope it will make an enjoyable follow-up to this one and fill in some of the gaps and lore.


	38. Bring Me To Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after, filled with regret, Shane sets out to make amends.

What had he been thinking? Had he even been thinking at all? Shane couldn’t answer that. Didn’t know what to say, what to think, as he lay in the clinic’s single ward room, beneath a suffocating pile of blankets. Machines beeped and whirred, which meant he was still alive, he guessed. He felt… well, physically, like crap. Mentally… a little better, but still on shaky ground.  
“I’ve treated you for mild hypothermia,” Doctor Harvey informed him. “And we monitored you overnight for alcohol poisoning. Your blood alcohol levels were dangerously high. From what I gather, you are a heavy drinker?”

Shane glanced at his hands. One was bound in bandages, a tube protruding from it. IV fluid. “It helps numb the pain,” he admitted.

The doctor nodded, as though he understood. But, of course he didn’t. The doctor lived the good life, the easy life, he’d never lost anyone close to him, or spent his life teetering on the edge of the abyss.

Unless, maybe he had? You shouldn’t be so quick to judge, Shane. Other people have their ghosts. 

“Your alcohol consumption is dangerous,” Harvey continued. “But it’s your state of mind that worries me the most. You told me that you’ve been experiencing feelings of hopelessness?”

“I did?” Shane blinked at him. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

“And your records show that you’ve experienced suicidal thoughts before and acted upon them.”

Shane barked a hollow laugh. “Is that professional talk for ‘attempted suicide’, doctor?”

Harvey straightened his glasses, looked a bit sheepish. “Yes,” he said. “Before you returned to Pelican Town.”

“I know my own history,” Shane muttered. “And remember my own fuck-ups. Well, most of them anyway.”

“I’m not qualified to make a psychological assessment,” Doctor Harvey continued. “But I can recommend you to a specialist. A colleague of mine, in Zuzu city.” He clasped Shane’s hand. Shane tried not to flinch away from the physical contact. “I know that, at the moment, the future may seem dark, but you’re not alone, Shane.”

“Are you hitting on me?” Shane said. He’d meant it in jest, but Harvey snatched his hand back. Blushed beneath his ridiculous mustache.

“No,” he said. “My behavior is entirely professional. I’m merely seeking to offer you comfort.”

Shit. Harvey must think he was homophobic. “Sorry,” he said. “I guess I get defensive when people are nice to me.”

“It’s hard to let people in?” 

“Yeah.”

“Because you’ve been hurt too many times in the past?”

Shane rose an eyebrow. “I thought you weren’t qualified to make a psychological assessment?”

“I’m not,” he said. “But I am pleased to see you’re in better spirits. Continue in that vein, and I’ll discharge you before lunch.”

“I’ll be on my best behavior, thanks doc. Thanks for saving my life.”

“Oh don’t thank me for that,” Harvey replied, pushing his glasses up his nose. “That’s what I signed up for. Thank Isla, she’s the one who found you.”

*

Hercules seemed in far better spirits today – possibly because the sun was shining. Probably because Isla had decided not to leave the farm today, and had secured all the gates, so he could gallop when and where he wished. He wouldn’t go near the wilderness corner, or that enormous black lake, she noticed. Not that she blamed him. The events of two nights ago had blurred into a haze, and aside from her ruined dress and the missing amethyst, she wasn’t sure what had been real and what had been a dream, but those parts of her property made the hairs on her neck stand up.

She’d have to clear them eventually, that and the north-west corner, past the ruined greenhouse. But not today, not yet. 

*

A figure strolled through her gate, closed it carefully behind them. Isla stood, stretched her spine. She recognized his walk immediately, a long-legged purposeful stride, shoulders slightly hunched.

“Shane,” she exclaimed. “You’re… okay?”

He looked… well, better than she’d expected, given how pale he’d been when she’d found him on the cliffs. His chin rough with stubble, yes, but there was a gleam in his eyes that hadn’t been there yesterday. He drew his hands from behind his back, thrust the bouquet of colorful flowers at her. “I wanted to say ‘thank you’,” he said. 

“Whatever for?” Isla took them, delighted. “They’re beautiful.”

“For well, finding me. I’m sorry you had to see me like that. Not my finest moment.” He ruffled his hair in embarrassment. “Harvey has… well, I’ve agreed to go to Zuzu, for counseling.” He studied the ground, shuffling his feet. “My first appointment is tomorrow afternoon. Marnie’s gonna come with me – do some shopping, I guess.”

Isla clutched the bouquet. “I’m just glad you’re still here,” she said.

He rose an eyebrow at her. “Wow, it was that serious, huh? I can barely remember...Everything feels like a bit of a haze. Well, err, enjoy the flowers. And sorry, again, for dragging you into my drama-ridden fucked-up life.” 

Don’t let him just walk away. Isla stepped forward, grabbed his hand. “Shane,” she whispered. “I know this might be hard to believe, but I rather like being a part of your drama-ridden life – near death encounters, notwithstanding. And if you haven’t noticed already, my life is pretty fucked-up too. No more secrets, okay? Come, see me on Wednesday night, after the Flower Dance. I’ll tell you about… about Nathaniel.” She choked on his name.

“No secrets,” Shane repeat. And with only a heartbeat of hesitation, he leaned down, brushed his lips against hers, a delicate whisper of a kiss. Isla could’ve sworn her heart skipped a beat. “Promise.” His voice sounded raw, husky.

“Isla!” Then Abigail, shrieking in delight, ran out of the coop. “We’ve got an egg, our first egg!” She hold the tiny white egg aloft. Steps faltered when she saw Shane. “Oh, hi. You’re looking better. Oh, is that one of dad’s bouquets?” She grinned broadly. “Shane, you wicked man you.” She mock punched him on the arm.

“What’s she doing here?” he asked Isla, eyebrows raised.

“I, um, think she might live here now,” Isla ventured. “I’ll fill you in on Wednesday.”

“Don’t worry,” Abigail said, winking at him. “I can be very discrete.”

He turned an incredulous gaze upon her, allowed himself a small smile. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Abigail.


	39. The Flower Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title says it all.
> 
> Warning: Contains Fluff. But I think we can all agree that Shane and Isla deserve some of that :)

“I can’t believe this is me.” Isla stared at the reflection in the full length mirror. She’d let – against her better judgment – Abigail dye her hair the day before, adding golden highlights to her otherwise dull brown hair (chestnut, her mother called it, an attempt to make it sound more exotic than it really was). Then Haley had worked her magic, bringing out the curls, tag-teaming with Emily, who’d applied the make-up.

“You look like a princess,” Emily informed her. “Now, the dress.” 

Isla took the dress into the bathroom, stripped off, stepped into it. The shoulders were puffy, the skirt pleated, falling just below her knees. It fit perfectly. But…

Shit. She’d forgotten to mention it.

The dress left her forearms bare. The criss-cross of angry, barely healed, scars stood out in stark relief against her pale skin. Tears sprang to her eyes. Emily had been so kind to her, made her this dress… but she couldn’t wear it. Couldn’t have her secret shame on display.

No more secrets. She’d told Shane. Sometimes, you just have to let someone else in.

She inched the bathroom door open. “Emily.” The desperation in her voice must have shown, because the woman was at her side in an instant, squeezing into the narrow room. 

“What’s wrong? Does it fit okay? Sorry, we didn’t have time for a proper fitting.”

“It’s great. Beautiful.” Isla choked on her words. “Just...” She couldn’t articulate. Could just raise her arm, show Emily the damage.

“Oh.” Emily visibly blanched. “What happened?” Then, realizing, repeated, “Oh.”

“I always wear long sleeves,” Isla whispered. She fancied she could sense Emily’s thoughts. The cold disgust, that someone would purposely do this to themselves; the worry, that she might take it further, cut deeper. “I’m not suicidal,” she whispered. “But it helps, when the pain inside... overflows.” Why was she trying to explain? No-one else had ever understood. Morris had been disgusted by it (‘there are better ways to get my attention, you know.’). Her mother, deeply disturbed, had blamed herself. 

Emily nodded. “I get it,” she whispered. Reached out, gave Isla an awkward hug. “I’ve got some gloves. They’ll do the trick.” White satin, fingerless gloves, they hooked around her middle finger, trailed lace from hand to elbow. Emily’s kindness, her understanding, made Isla want to weep. Instead, she whispered, “Thank you,” and squeezed the woman’s hand.

“Does Shane know?” Emily asked.

“No,” Isla whispered. “No-one does. Except you and – I think – the doctor. Harvey.”

“You need to tell him.” 

“I know.” Tears pricked her eyes. He’d understand, yes, but could she add her burden to the heavy load he already carried? 

Haley emerged from her room a short while later, looking completely radiant. A true spring queen. She studied Isla, appraising her. “The gloves seem a little like over gilding the rose,” she said, coolly. “But you’ll turn a few heads.” 

High praise indeed.

The dance was held in a forest clearing, and they had to walk through Cindersap Forest to get there, picking their way carefully around the muddy puddles and over broken branches. 

“Ugh,” Haley complained. “Why do they have to hold it in the middle of the forest?”

“Because it’s a flower dance?” Emily replied.

Isla walked in silence, glad she’d left her boots on and that her limp was starting to fade. Birds chirped through the trees, no, not birds, she realized with a start. Junimo. Bright little flashes of color, ferrying broken branches through the trees, clearing the paths.

Keepers of the forest, indeed.

Abigail joined them at the newly placed, and rather precarious, plank bridge. She was wearing combat boots with her dress. “Hi Isla,” she said, looping her elbow into Isla’s. “Who’d have thought you’d polish up so well. What kind of sorcery is this?” “Ask them.” Isla nodded at her companions. “They worked the magic.”

“I can’t wait to see Shane’s face,” she replied, grinning wickedly. “I still can’t believe he’s finally talking to me again.”

The entire town had gathered in the large clearing. Isla knew there were only around thirty townsfolk, but en masse, even that small number felt overwhelming. Mayor Lewis sat in a chair to one side, a walking stick resting across his lap. He rose a hand in greeting, before turning his attention back to Marnie, fluttering around him like a worried mother hen. A band, all clad in flouncy shirts, and bright colored clothing, set up a stage under a sweeping blossom tree. Before them rose a tall wooden pole that trailed colorful ribbons. Jasmine and Vincent ran circles around it, hyped up on sugar and adrenaline. Jasmine waved her fairy wand at Isla.

“Hello Miss Isla!” she called. She ran up to her. “Uncle Shane and me watched the princess movie last night. It was really, really good. Inconceivably good!” She laughed, and danced off.

Thank Yoba, she seemed to have recovered. Isla glanced at Shane, standing over by the table. She felt oddly shy, as she made her way towards them.

“Hi,” she said. He had his back to her, was facing the table, chatting with Sam. Turned at the greeting, rewarded her with a bone-melting smile.

Sam gave a low whistle, which earned him a scowl from both Isla and Shane. He held up his hands in mock surrender. 

“Sorry,” he said. “Not meaning to objectify you or nothing like that, but well… You look nice, okay?” He grabbed a plateful of cake. “Now, I’m just going to take myself over here and err, talk to Sebastian. Bye.”

Neither of them were really listening.

“Abigail told me about the tradition here, with the bouquets from Pierre’s.” Isla kept her voice low. Aware that Sebastian and Sam were still within earshot.

Shane blushed, shuffled his feet. “It was that or pick my own,” he said. “It didn’t mean anything more than ‘thank you’.” He glanced at her shyly. Ventured, “Unless you want it to?”

Isla swallowed down the lump in her throat. Did she? Well… yes, she wanted his hands upon her, his lips against hers, his…no, restrain those thoughts. He deserved more, so much more than she could offer. “Can we talk about this later?” she asked. “You might change your mind, once you know the real me.”

Shane stared at her, expression incredulous. “You really believe that?” she could hear the hurt in his words. “Fuck, Isla. You’re incredible. I–”

She wouldn’t let him finish, couldn’t let him finish, afraid he might say the words she ached to hear, but knew she didn’t deserve. “Will you dance with me?” she interrupted quickly. “In the single’s dance?”

“I’m supposed to dance with Emily,” he muttered, twisting his hands together. “I promised her. Otherwise, Clint’ll ask her. And she’s so damn nice, she’ll feel sorry for him, and say ‘yes’ and… if she throws that man a bone, he’ll take off her entire hand.” Isla nodded, blinked away the tears that pricked the corner of her eyes. It was just a stupid dance – why did it matter if he danced with her or not? He’d given her the goddamn bouquet after all.

He clasped her hand in both of his. Squeezed tight. “I’d love to dance with you. But… Emily’s my friend.”

And you want to protect her too. Clint didn’t seem dangerous, just hopelessly hopeful. But Morris hadn’t seemed dangerous, in the beginning, either. 

“It’s okay,” she whispered, squeezed back. “My ankle… well. I probably shouldn’t be dancing anyway.”

“Are you sure?” Brow furrowed in concern. 

She forced a smile. “Absolutely. I’ll be fine. Go, have fun. But, not too much fun.”

Raised voices, from beneath a pine tree. 

“I’m not dancing, Abby. I tell you this every year.” Sebastian. Isla wasn’t sure she’d ever heard him speak before – his voice was low, husky, with the faintest lilt of an accent. 

“And every year, you eventually agree,” Abigail was becoming insistent. “Come on, it’ll be fun.” She stomped her booted foot. “You know it will.”

He rolled his eyes at her. “It’s never fun, Abby. It wasn’t fun when we were eighteen, and it sure as hell isn’t fun now. Shit, I’d rather be working.” His gaze caught Isla’s and transformed into the familiar glare.

“This is a private conversation,” he growled. 

“I’ll dance with you,” Isla said to Abigail, ignoring Sebastian. Something about the intensity in his dark eyes, the grim set of his mouth, sent a shiver down her spine. 

“You will? But aren’t you dancing with,” she nodded her head in Shane’s direction. “And what about your ankle?”

“Apparently not,” Isla tried to keep the faint edge of bitterness from her tone (stop being selfish). “My ankle should be fine, it’s much better now. What do you say?”

Abigail tossed her hair and turned a bright smile to Isla. “That sounds wonderful.” She cast a sideways glance at Sebastian, perhaps hoping to see jealousy in his eyes (what she received, instead, was bored curiosity), before hooking her arm into Isla’s and guiding her away. Isla cast a glance back, over her shoulder and wished she hadn’t. Because Sebastian was glaring after them.

“What’s his problem with me?” Isla wondered aloud. “He looks at me like I’m something he scraped off the bottom of his shoe.” “I’m not sure.” Abigail’s brow furrowed. “He’s… changed. He used to be more fun, back when we were kids. He was my first kiss, you know. I was twelve. He was fourteen.”

“Wait, but didn’t you have a crush on Shane?” Isla teased her.

Abigail rolled her eyes, nudged her playfully. “Just because I was madly in love with my best friend’s brother, didn’t mean I couldn’t kiss other boys. Then he – Sebby, I mean – went off to college, in Zuzu. Came back all dark and serious, listening to gloomy songs about how miserable life was, and moved into the basement. I expect he writes maudlin poetry and cuts himself for fun.”

Isla winced. Wondered if Abigail had noticed. She hadn’t appeared to.

The band started. Folk music, not Isla’s preferred choice (unless it also involved electric guitars; this it was all acoustic, there was even an accordion). A jaunty rhythm that got toes tapping. 

Lewis stood, leaned heavily on his walking stick, and thanked everyone for coming, before calling forth every “gentleman and fair maiden” to join the dance (“Are you sure he means us,” Abigail whispered in her ear). The town’s young folk formed an orderly line, maidens on one side, gentlemen on the other, and – after a little bit of confusing, as she and Abigail fumbled to figure out who should stand on which side – Abigail wound up between Emily and Haley, which left Isla between Shane and Alex. 

“What happened to Sebastian?” Alex asked, studying her intently. 

Isla shrugged. “He didn’t feel like dancing.” He was, in fact, standing to one side of the crowd, cigarette in hand, feigning complete disinterest.

Saw Shane sneak her a shy smile, and raise his eyebrow in her direction. “Your ankle?” he mouthed.

She shrugged. Whispered back, “It’s fine. Gotta keep an eye on you.”

Clint was glaring at them too, no, not at them, at Shane. His mouth turned into a sour grimace. Isla felt spiders dance down her spine. If he could kill with a look, he’d have Shane writhing on the ground. Simple jealousy? Or something more sinister? The dance began, and Isla realized how completely, hopelessly, out of her depths she was. Despite the worries over her outfit, no-one had actually remembered to teach her the steps. Abigail, bless her, realized fairly quickly that Isla was floundering along like a drunk hummingbird and, the next time they needed to come together to do some weird sort of twirl, whispered in her ear, “Follow my lead,” and took control of the situation. Fluidly, they switched places, Abigail lead her into the twirl, pushed her out of it. Exaggerated their movements so that any missteps seemed intention. They spun, circled around each other, linked arms, and joined the others in a chain, skipping around the maypole. After the initial flutter of panic had died, Isla found she was quite enjoying herself, especially when they suddenly switched partners and she found Shane on her arm. He smiled at her, a genuine smile that flashed his dimples, and sent a thrill of excitement radiating down her spine. Ahead, Emily and Abigail laughed, hand-in-hand, spinning in circles.

That song finished. Shane stepped back, hands still clasped. He bowed his head, and gallantly rose her hand to his lips. 

A new song began, slower.

“May I have this dance, milady?” His eyes crinkled with his smile.

She gave a small curtsy. “Why, yes. I would be charmed.” 

And was swept up, into the melody.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to fans of Sebastian. It's not that I don't like the basement dwelling, emo computer programmer, it's more that he's heavily represented* in the 'ficdom and I kinda feel like giving other characters more of a chance.
> 
> Also, as you may have guessed, not a fan of the Clint/Emily thing (probably because I've experienced similar situations in my teen years, and Emily's comment of "well, I don't care who it's from, it's still beautiful" re: the Gift for Emily quest kinda says to me how she feels about Clint). Out of curiosity, how would people feel about an Emily/Leah pairing? They're not main chars in either of my 'fics, but I'm contemplating future options. (Also Wizard/Linus but that's by-the-by, and indubitably been done).
> 
> * Okay, so Shane is probably the second-most frequently represented, but that's cos his character development is just so damn enticing.


	40. Secrets and Lust (X-rated)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the flower dance, Isla keeps her promise to share her secrets - and (finally) herself - with Shane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING:  
> Yes, this chapter contains explicit content, as the title suggests.  
> (It's also the first sex scene I'd written in forever, so, well, I hope you like it)
> 
> However, it also contains a potential emotionally painful reveal re: Isla's past and the fate of Nathaniel. It's not violent, but it is tragic, and may act as a trigger warning to anyone who has suffered the loss of an infant.  
> I hope I handled it with the compassion such a situation requires.  
> Feedback appreciated.

Hours later, Shane stood in her kitchen, hands clenched, his heart beating a nervous tempo against his ribs. The dancing had been wonderful – but now, he had to face what came next.

She’d promised him the truth. He hoped he would prove worthy of her trust.

“You don’t have to, not if you don’t want to,” he said, sensing her fluttering unease. He ached to comfort her, wrap his arms around her, tell her everything would be alright. But would it? 

What terrible secrets did she cradle close to her heart? (Had she killed her son?) Could he still love her, if she had?

Love. That was a strong word. Did he love her?

Could she, ever, learn to love him?

“I need to,” she whispered. And he started, but she was answering his statement, not reading his thoughts. She rummaged through the chest of drawers, cradled a small book to her chest. A photo album. “Please. Sit.”

Shane drew out the chair, sat at the table. His hands were shaking, but he clasped them together, gripped them so tight his knuckles turned white. 

She laid the album on the table in front of him. Her own hands were trembling. He grabbed one, pressed the knuckles to his lips. She shivered, managed a shaky smile.

“Nathaniel,” she whispered, her other hand tracing the baby foot motif on the cover. “Born April 21st, 2017. Died, November 14th, 2017.”

“Seven months old,” Shane whispered. He took the album, turned the pages in reverential silence. A tiny child, curled into the fetal position, naked but for the beanie that covered most of his head. Eyes closed. The next page, the child’s eyes were open. Huge and blue, but unfocused, and blank. Twelve pictures, tracing the child’s growth. Always, heavily swathed, or wearing the beanie. Shane remembered Jas at that age, she’d always been alert, eyes tracing him every movement, it had been easy to tease a smile out of her. This child… whilst his eyes were open, there was no animation there.

“He was damaged,” Isla whispered. “Incomplete. I took… I took pills. For anxiety. While I was pregnant. I didn’t know. Didn’t know, until it was too late. The doctor said… that he would never make it to his first birthday. Suggested we terminate. But… we decided to go through with it anyway. Prayed the doctor was wrong.” She choked on the words, eyes clenched shut, teeth gritted, against the pain. Shane seized her hand in his. Squeezed it. She opened her eyes, tears trickling down her cheeks. “He wasn’t. Nathaniel cried, could breathe on his own – but he was blind, and deaf, with no cognitive functions.” She paused, squeezed his hand so tight that his bones protested – but he said nothing, just sat there, and held her. “Seizures every day. Every time,” she swallowed hard, “I’d hope that it would be his last, that he would just slip quietly away. I wanted my child dead,” her voice was a harsh whisper. “But still I dreaded the thought, knowing that one day, he would be gone.” She blinked rapidly, stared at him, her green eyes glistening with tears. “And our marriage began to crumble. Morris, and my mother, well, they read up about it. About the potential causes and found a tentative link to the pills, and... they started to blame me. Convinced me, that it was my fault. That I had... broken him. Nathaniel made it to seven months... then just died in my arms.” 

Shane was up from his seat before he was even aware he was moving, wrapped his arms around her. She buried herself against him, shaking so hard he feared she might be having a seizure herself. She was so tiny, so vulnerable. He lifted her, carried her across the room, laid her on the bed (a new bed – when had she got that?) and sat beside her, running his hand down her cheek.

“You don’t hate me, do you?” she somehow managed to choke out.

“Hate you?” He laughed at the incongruity of the question. “Isla, how could you ever think anyone might think that?” Hands shaking, he found he was running them through his hair again, mussing it up. Swallowed. “I’m really hating Morris though.” 

She laughed a bit shakily at that, drew herself into a sitting position, wrapping her arms around her knees. “But I destroyed my son.”

“Shit, Isla,” he said, and drew as close to her as he dared. “You actually believe that?”

She nodded mutely, curled up beside him. He stroked her hair, kissed her on the crown of her head. 

“Do you still want to… to be with me?” she choked out.

The answer caught in his throat, a heavy lump of emotion. Instead, he leaned over, kissed her. Brushed his lips against hers, as gently as he could, as though afraid she might flinch away. She didn’t. Her hands came up, locked behind his neck. Drew him to her.

“Of course,” he whispered against her beautiful, delicious mouth. “You’re wonderful.” He kissed the corner of her smile. “Generous.” The other corner. “Beautiful.” 

*

“I want to kill him,” Shane growled.

Isla felt her heart kick against her ribs. She remembered his rage in the video. Knew that he could – that he would – kill for those he loved.

Loved? Well, he must. To… to forgive her. For what she’d done.

But… was there anything really, to forgive?

They’d all said it wasn’t her fault. The doctors. The psychiatrist. Her friends. That she couldn’t have known – and even if she had, the odds had been infinitesimal. Just an unlucky roll on the dice of fate.

No-one blamed her: except for him. And… And her mother.

The two most important people in her life.

“Please don’t,” she whispered. Fuck, what was this going to do for his work? Despite everything, Morris was still his manager.

“I guess it’s a good thing, I’ve quit JojaMart,” he said, with a small, hollow laugh. “Handed in my notice, this morning. Effective immediately.” His voice was low, husky in her ear. “The shrink said, well, that it wasn’t healthy for me. To stay there.” 

Isla nestled her face against his shoulder. “I’m so happy for you.” For us. “But… what are you going to do now?”

“Marnie found me a position,” he replied. “At a chicken farm, near Grampleton. Free range and organic. It’s menial, low-grade work – I’ll probably mostly be shoveling shit, and stuff – but Morris won’t be fucking with my mind anymore. And,” his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, “there’s an open day at Grampleton’s Community College next week. I thought I might go… look at some courses. Maybe one on running a small business. I’d like to run my own chicken farm one day. Free range of course.”

“You’re taking control of your life,” Isla whispered. 

“I’m taking control of my life,” he repeated, slowly, wonder in his voice. “And I couldn’t have done it, without you.”

Isla laughed, a little shakily. “You think too little of yourself. This is your doing, not mine. I was just… just the catalyst.” She ran her hand down his cheek, stubble rough against her palm. Pressed a kiss upon the dimple of his smile.

“My catalyst,” he whispered. “Can I...May I?” His hand, tentative upon her shoulder, tracing her collarbone, the curve of her chin. 

“Yes,” she breathed. Kissed him on the lips, his full, luscious lips. Soft, at first, yielding, turning to hungry urgency. Like he couldn’t get enough of her, and she wanted to devour him. His stubble rough against her cheek, breath short in her ear. 

“Isla,” he breathed her name like it was a caress. Her fingers fumbled with his buttons, shirt falling open. Her hands, cool against his warm skin, tangling in the dark hairs, stroking across his chest, tracing down, across the curve of his belly. He sucked in a breath as she reached lower to the cuff of his jeans. Looked at him, questions in her eyes.

“Can I?”

His smile was delighted and wicked. She couldn’t resist kissing the corner of his mouth, then tasting those lips again. He moaned, as she nibbled gently on his lower lip, as her hand fumbled with the dome of his jeans. Popped it free. At the hard, hot heat of him, pulsating with desire below. Couldn’t resist brushing a finger across him, thrilled at his sucked in breathe, his gasp of her name. Oh, she loved the way her name sounded on his lips.

Kissed him again. His hands on her now. Tentative, gentle, as though seeking permission. Tracing her curves, his eyes wide with wonder. With delight. She reached behind herself, unzipped the dress. Drew away from him, wriggled out of it, tossing it unceremoniously to the floor. Knelt before him in her thin satin camisole.

Remembered, too late, the scars on her stomach.

“Shane,” she whispered. “There’s something…something else you should know.” Swallowed hard. Would he be repulsed, as Morris had been? “You might drink, to bury the pain. But I… I cut.” 

Confusion, for a second, then as her fingers danced under the hem, rose the undershirt, drew it over her head. Exposed the raw scars below, saw understanding darken his eyes. He swallowed again, Blinked away tears. “Oh Isla,” he whispered. She tensed, expecting him to draw away. To wince or scold her, or to otherwise freak out. Instead, he reached for her. His finger, cool and tentative, traced the jagged cuts. “Isla,” he whispered. “I never realized.” Arms around her, pulling her into his embrace, burying his head against her shoulder.

She was sobbing then, shivering with tears and the release of tension. “I’m broken too,” she whispered.

“We’ll heal together,” he returned. Kissed her with an intensity that sent shivers down her spine, right to her core. And awakened the burning heat between her legs. “I want you,” he whispered. “Scars and all.”

She drew the gloves off, tossed them into a crumpled heap by the side of the bed. His fingers traced the scars entangling her forearm. He pressed his lips against them. “I’m not… experienced,” he whispered into the palm of her hand.

She laughed shakily, guided his hands up to her delicate lace bra. He fumbled with the clasp, undid it. She eased out of it, shivering, as the chill in the air tightened her nipples. Sighed, in anticipation when his forefinger circled the areola, palm brushing her breast. When he brought his lips to them, her breath caught in his throat. He kissed each in turn with delicate reverence. She fell back onto the pile of cushions, drew him over her. Delighted in the impish glee in his eyes, the playful, smile on his lips, the warmth and weight of him. His thighs, muscles taut, encased her. Shirt fallen open from collar to navel. Isla danced her fingers down his chest, traced the trail of hair from belly button down, towards his groin. Past the open dome, sliding down the zip with delicate care. Groaning with anticipation, he shimmied his jeans down, over his hips. Kicking them off to join the pile on the floor. His hands went to the shirt next, but Isla shook her head.

“Leave it,” she whispered, greedily drinking in the sight of him. His black satin boxers did little to restrain his desire. She reached for him, running her fingers lightly over his cock, teasingly the fabric away, exposing the eager length of him. He trembled beneath her feather-light touches. Lips pursued.

She shot him a wild, teasing grin, and lowered her mouth, kissed the head of his cock. Smiled as his fingers tangled in her hair. Gasped her name in breathless passion. Took him in her mouth. Tongue darting out, flicking.

“Fuck,” he gasped. Nibbled and licked her way down his shaft, enjoying the way he writhed, dug his fingers into her, whispered her name. Like it was a prayer. Moved up, tracing his body in kisses, finding, finally, his lips. Nibbling, licking. His hand fumbled with the lace of her underwear, she pushed it down, freeing herself. Burning for him. What he claimed to lack in experience, he made up for with tentative enthusiasm, his fingers tracing up her thigh, dipping delicately into her labia. Probing deeper when she moaned and pressed against him. She reached down, guiding his hand to the deeper, secret places, to the pulsing heat of her clitoris.

Her orgasm came like a supernova, erupting from her core. She gasped, fingers curling in the blankets, grasping, writhing against him. Felt his smile in his kiss. He didn’t need any guidance after that.

‘Holy Yoba,” she whispered into his shoulder. He wasn’t giving her chance to catch her breath though, moving on, lips tracing a cool trail down her body. Tasting both nipples in turn, cool air breathed over the dampened skin. Kissing down her cleavage, to her belly button. Paused over the scars.

“What do they mean?” he whispered.

Isla blinked herself back to reality. “Protective runes,” she said. “Against the dark. Against… against anyone that might seek to harm me. Or,” she shuddered a little, as he kissed her belly button, “try to force me, against my will.” Added a slightly unsteady laugh. “Don’t worry. They won’t hurt you.”

“Oh,” he said, a slight tremor to the word, as though he hadn’t considered that possibility. “Good.” Paused. “Did he hurt you?” Didn’t need to clarify who he was talking about. ( _Pushed against the wall, thrusting and thrusting inside her, while tears streamed down her cheeks._ ) “Yes,” she whispered.

“Shit. I’ll be gentle. I promise.”

Her fingers tangled in his hair. “I know.”

Then his fingers were on her; she parted her legs for him. For his hands, peeling back her layers, and his lips, soft; tongue darting out, seeking her hidden nectar. Hands tangled in the sheet, as sensation erupted within her, exploding, engulfing her senses. Overcoming her.

“I want you inside me,” she gasped, when the fireworks died from behind her eyes. “Condom. Top drawer. Do you need help. Putting it on?” Even articulating the words was hard. He drew his tongue away, kept his fingers inside her. Somehow, she managed to fumble open the top drawer. Pull out one of the foil packages (Thank Yoba she’d actually prepared herself for the liaison that hadn’t). Tore it open with her teeth, and tossed it to him. He caught it, she helped him slip it on, roll it over the long, hard length of his cock. Then he was above her, his weight pressing down on her, fingers dancing within her, exciting her, preparing her (as though she weren’t already eager enough). She moaned and writhed beneath him, reached for him, guiding him in. Smooth and hard. Gasped, as he thrust inside her. 

“I didn’t hurt you?” he asked, pressing his forehead to hers. “Are you okay?”

“Fuck yes,” she gasped. Then added. “Are you?”

His smile said it all. She kissed the corners of his mouth, then his lips. 

“I want you to fuck me,” she whispered. “Don’t worry about breaking me. I’m not as fragile as you seem to think.”

“As you wish,” he whispered into her ear.

A thrill down her spine, fingers tangling into the sheets, toes curling.

And he obliged.

He didn’t last long, but she hadn’t expected him to. It had been building for too long for both of them. He came with a glorious whimpering moan, shuddering within her. Collapsed atop her, his weight like a warm, reassuring blanket, until slipped out and rolled to her side, as though afraid he might crush her.

“Fuck, Isla,” he whispered. Cupped his hand around her cheek.

“Yes,” she returned. “You did.” Felt him laugh against her throat.


	41. Work, Play, Balance

Weeks of work and stolen moments passed, found them lying in bed, beside each other, naked, basking in the afterglow. Isla traced the curve of his face with her hand, marveled that he was here, with her.

He clasped it, kissed the palm, her fingertips each in turn. The same joyful wonder from him, a new sparkle in his eyes, a confidence in his gait. Hunched shoulders, gone, replaced by a new lightness.

“How was your day?” she asked him. “Your week?”

He laughed huskily, fingers trailing lazily across her breasts. “Good,” he said. “The boss – his name’s Arthur – drew me aside yesterday, said that my talents were being wasted on shoveling dung. Moved me into the hatchery, offered to teach me a bit about the husbandry. They’re trialing a new technology, to identify the male chicks before they hatch. They still… die,” he swallowed, “but, at least it’s early in their developmental process. Better than...” maceration and cat food, she finished the sentence in her head. She’d learned way more about chickens than she ever thought she would. Was relieved to have her own hens, and never have to think about the horror of battery farms or industrialized barn life. “I’m not boring you, am I?” he added.

She answered him with a kiss, slid her hands down his body, idly teasing one of his nipples. “Never,” she whispered. She loved seeing him like this, excited about his future. Their future, she supposed.

“I wish… I wish I could see you more often,” he breathed, gasping slightly as she slid her hand lower, towards more intimate regions. “But–”

“It’s better if we take things carefully.” Lips against his neck, brushing the pulse at his throat. “Work, play, balance right?”

He laughed, a throaty, cheerful sound that made her heart leap and her toes curl. “The shrink said… not to,” he gasped, as Isla’s fingers teased at him. “I forget,” he breathed. “But the word ‘codependent’ was used.” He drew himself away, levered himself up on his elbow, studied her face, fingers tracing her smile, eyes suddenly serious. 

“You’re not… not just into me because you felt sorry for me, are you?”

She cupped his chin in her hand, ran her thumb across the bristling stubble. “Hell no,” she whispered. “I’m into you...” Because of the way you held me, helped me, outside the JojaMart when I had a panic attack and we didn’t even know each others’ names. Because of how you are with Jasmine, and the animals. And… because you treat me like I’m cherished, and special. Blinked away tears. “Because you’re kind, and generous and,” a wicked, teasing grin, “damn good in the sack.”

“Well, that’s good then,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching up, tempting her to kiss it. His fingers danced along the inside of her wrist. “Because I’ve got something to ask you.”

Isla braced herself on her elbow, studied him, his face had turned solemn again. “Yes?” she whispered. 

“I know it’s not my place to ask,” he said. “But... please. I’d really appreciate it if you stopped doing this to yourself.” His gaze broke from her, but his fingertips brushed warm against the raised scars. 

It’s not like I’m boozing away my pain, Isla thought fiercely. It doesn’t hurt anyone but me. She fought the urge to snatch her arm away and cradle it to her chest. Instead, she forced herself to meet his gaze, and realized that it wasn’t true: it was hurting someone – maybe not physically – but by cutting herself, she hurt those who cared for her. “I’ll try,” she whispered. “But... it’ll be hard.” The cutting had become so much a habit – before Stardew – the only way to make her emotional pain real. But here, there were always weeds to be pulled, or monsters to be slain – other, more productive, ways to release the dark pent-up emotion.

“I know,” he whispered, lowering his head and brushing his lips against the scars on her belly. “But.. I dunno... could you just get a tattoo, or draw butterflies, or something?” She combed her fingers through his hair. “I promise,” she said - and meant it.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “I’ll make it worth your while.” Then he pursed his lips and blew a raspberry into her belly-button.

She laughed and squirmed, and he kissed his way up her body until his mouth found hers again.

“We’re stronger together,” she whispered, when they broke to breathe. “I have a good word for you.” She nuzzled his ear, nibbled gently on the lobe, enjoyed the way his body tensed. Whispered, “Synergy. It means that together we are more than the sum of our individual parts.”

“I kinda like your individual parts,” he laughed. She felt some of the tension flow out of him. He purred the word against her ear, “Synergy.”

*

Isla leaned against the cave wall, brushed sweat from her eyes and wiped slime ichor from her blade. A new sword, its blade golden-brown. An amethyst glinted in its pommel. “Made powerful with forest magic,” Rasmodius had informed her when he’d gifted it to her after a few training sessions. “The junimo wanted you to have it,” he’d said. “Me, I prefer a more hands-off approach.” 

Abigail danced beside her, wiping her own blade clean. “Four to me,” she said.

“And five to me,” Isla replied.

Abigail pouted. “Only cos you use magic as well.” 

Isla nudged her with an elbow. “You’re just jealous,” she said. 

“Because magic sometimes skips a generation,” Abigail grumbled. “It didn’t skip Ras’s generation. And you, you got the best of both damn worlds.”

A high-pitched screech, somewhere off in the distance, had them both readying their blades. A thick, cloying mist rose from the rocks.

“Bats,” Abigail growled. “More of those Void-cursed bats.” Shot Isla a wicked grin, as they took up battle stance, back to back. “Prepare to be out-matched.”

They gathered, afterwards, in the so-called Adventurer’s Guild. Tallied their kills (twelve to Abigail, sixteen to Isla), and applied healing elixir to their cuts and bruises. Abigail winced as Isla tended to a particularly savage one behind her ear.

“Might need stitches,” she said. “Oh, never mind.” The edges knitted themselves back together. “Harvey would be out of a job, if we put these on the market.”

“They only work on wounds inflicted by the Void-afflicted,” Gil spoke up, from his rocking chair in the corner. “Magic cures what darkness injures.”

“Quite the poet, Grandpa,” Abigail stretched, looked to Isla, lowered her voice so the elderly man couldn’t hear, “So, is lover-boy coming over tonight? Should I crash here again?”

“No.” Isla choked back her concern. “He wants to stay near Jasmine tonight – her nightmares are getting worse. They’re freaking awful. I wish we could help her. Marnie’s talking about taking her to a specialist in Zuzu. Thinks it’s because...”

“… Because it’s almost the anniversary, of Mona’s death?” Abigail finished. “But she wasn’t even one year old. Shit. How’s Shane?”

“He seems to be holding up well – almost too well,” Isla replied. “Marnie’s worried it’s a mask. So, we’re all watching him very closely. Movie night this Thursday. Someone – well, me,” she allowed herself a sly grin, “may have introduced Jasmine to the Ghibli collection. We’re having a movie marathon. Of the fun ones,” she added. “Nothing sad! Do you wanna come? There’ll be popcorn, and Emily is gonna knock-off work early, and bring us pizza.”

“Only if Shane wants me there.” The relationship between he and Abigail was still tenuous. The bombshell about Mona’s father had not been particularly well received, (“Gods Isla, and he didn’t even reach out, try to help her? Abandoned her, just as our mother did?”) but at least they were talking again – and more to the point, Shane had begun to talk about Mona (“She loved fairy roses; Jas is so much like her”).

“I’ll ask him.” Isla was fairly sure he’d agree to it. Jasmine deserved to get to know her aunt, after all. “What about you though? Are you ever going to move back home? Your father – Pierre, I mean – asks me every time I take any crops to sell. It’s getting very tiresome.” And you can’t sleep on my couch forever.

“I don’t suppose you’d consider building a cabin for me?” Abigail ventured. “I hear there’s some sort of local subsidy: the Town Agricultural Fund, I think it’s called, so it’d be super-cheap for you.”

Isla rose her eyebrows at her cousin. “You can’t hide from them forever.”

There was a long, silent pause. Then, “Hey, Grandpa,” Abigail said, loudly and slowly, rousing Gilbert from his slumber. “Can you tell us about the Curse of the Void again?” She shot Isla a withering look. Discussion over.

“Certainly, my dear,” Gilbert began. “Once, back before time, there was only the endless golden light….”

*

“He’s after the farm,” Isla’s lawyer informed her over the phone. “Oh, he says he won’t sign because he still loves you – and he wants the chance to reconcile – but he didn’t care, not until he heard you’d inherited the property.”

“Shit,” Isla muttered. “Can he… Has he any right to it?”

She heard papers shuffling, the click of fingers on keyboard. “No, your grandfather’s Will was quite clear. The farm belongs to you, Isla Alexander, and your descendants alone.”

She let out a breath she hadn’t been aware she was holding. Why though? Why would Morris give half a damn about a rundown farm in the middle of nowhere?

“He’s going to fight it though,” the lawyer warned. “And JojaCorp employ excellent lawyers. He’s trying to claim you’ve been psychologically compromised by grief.”

“That’s bullshit,” Isla responded, then realized swearing to her lawyer probably wasn’t good form. “I’m not crazy. He’s a manipulative bastard. He tried to talk me into a reconciliation. When I refused, he tried to rape me in my own damned kitchen.”

“Did you file a police report?”

“No.” Shit.

“Pity.” Her voice held cold practicality. No sympathy. Did she even believe her? Isla could hear the click of nails on keyboard. “We could have used that against him. Well, I’ve scheduled you in for a hearing on the 3rd June. At 3:30. We’ll try for a contested severance. Of course, we are legally obliged to invite him, and if – when – he shows, things will get ugly. So, prepare yourself. I understand you have a new boyfriend, who was recently in Blake’s employ? I’d recommend that you keep him well out of this. Blake and his lawyers have fangs, and they’ll not hesitate to go for the jugular. Well, see you next week.”

She rang off, not waiting for Isla’s farewell. Isla cursed, rested her head against the table. So that was why Morris had been digging into Shane’s past. Not only to undermine their growing relationship, but also for ammunition to use against them.

But why did Morris want the farm? He wasn’t exactly the rural type.

She opened her notebook, ran her fingers across the notes she’d taken, since moving here. The map of the mines that she and Abigail had begun to plot.

“The mines must run under the whole town,” she breathed, realizing. Was he after gemstones? They’d found quite a few through their recent explorations, proving that the mines had not been spent. She’s also found enough ore to cast five copper bars in her tiny makeshift furnace, and finally got the damned water can fixed. 

But didn’t JojaCorp already own the mines? (Shit, did that mean she was stealing from her previous employers?). And why the interest in her land, specifically? Surely Joja could afford to buy the whole damned town if they wanted it that badly.

What did she have, that the town didn’t?

The thought hit her like a shock-wave.

The castle at the heart of the abyss. 

The wilderness corner.

That terrible dark presence that lurked there, every night. Like it was waiting.

Was that what Morris – what JojaCorp – wanted?

She opened her phone, dialed Abigail’s number. It might be on her property, but she’d be damned if she venture in there alone.


	42. The Shade in the Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abigail and Isla venture into the Wilderness Corner, seeking the secrets that lurk within...

“It’s like a Yoba-damned jungle,” Abigail complained, scything away another creeping vine. “Do you think your grandfather ever cleared it?” They’d been a path once, Isla realized, when she stumbled over another broken cobblestone. But the tangled roots and the trees, had certainly claimed this corner.

“Oh,” Abigail exclaimed, leaning down to pick a toadstool. “A purple one, you don’t usually see them. Aren’t they on the wish-list?” She slipped it into her pocket.

“They hold arcane power,” Isla muttered, quoting her grandfather’s notebook. “And are usually found in fall.” A tremor passed down her spine, and she scanned the tree-tops. The branches formed a thick, impenetrable barrier, their leaves blocking the sun and casting the world beneath into shadowy dark. No junimo here – no birds either. 

“Look,” Abigail pointed. “A boot print. Someone’s been here before – recently too.”

“You’re way better at this tracking thing than me,” Isla remarked. The stillness was eerie, Abigail’s chatter a welcome relief. 

“Uncle Marlon’s been teaching me,” she said. “He used to stalk deer. Back when the mines were still open. Sold it to the miners. I wonder what Pelican Town was like back then.”

“I’m sure Gil would tell you. Are you ever going to move back home?”

Abigail groaned. “I wish you’d stop asking me. But yeah, soon.” She paused, admitted, “I miss Mom’s cooking.”

Isla barked a laugh. “Sick of parsnip soup then?”

“Yoba yes. What’s that?” A rustling, up ahead. A movement through the trees. “What the fuck?”

It was a rabbit, its fur as black as pitch. But, unlike most of the bunnies around here, which fled as soon as they were seen, this one came charging towards them. Its eyes glowed red, like tiny fiery pinpricks, and it opened its mouth, to reveal elongated incisors, tapering to sharp points. It leaped, soaring up, bounced off Isla’s chest. Its teeth grazed her cheek.

Abigail’s sword was in her hand, slashed at it as it rebounded from Isla’s shoulder, straight at the warrior. It screamed as the blade impacted, a terrible, blood-curdling howl unlike any they’d heard before. Tumbled to the ground, writhing in its death throes. A second blow, and it twitched its last.

Its blood soaked into the dirt, a red so dark it was almost black.

“The Void corrupts,” Isla whispered.

“Was that a goddamn… Void bunny?” The two woman crouched down beside it; Abigail poked it with the blade. “It bloody is. Shit. Do you think there’s Void squirrels and Void robins too?”

Isla felt the shiver dance down her spine. “Wouldn’t surprise me,” she whispered. “Shane said something, about Void chickens. That they assimilated quite well, but were more aggressive than normal chickens. I thought he was joking.”

“Grandpa Gil insists he caught a void salmon once, but he wouldn’t tell me where. And well… he’s quite known for his tall tales.”

They cast their eyes to the deep inky blackness of the lake, barely visible through the trees. “You don’t think… do you?” Isla whispered.

“That the lake could be the physical manifestation of the Void?” Abigail shook her head, shivered. “Never crossed my mind.” Gave a shaky laugh. “Have you ever… fished in it?”

“No.” She shook her head. “But… We used to swim in it. When I was a kid, my father and I. It wasn’t that deep. There was a jetty, and everything.” They picked their way through the tangle of weeds, stepping over buttress roots, and made their way to the lake shore. A shingle bay. The remains of the jetty looked like a drowned skeleton. Abigail picked up a stone, tossed it into the water. Both craned their ears, listening for the ‘plop’.

It sounded thicker, more viscous, as though the stone had struck jello.

And something, something massive, writhed beneath the surface.

“Holy Yoba,” Abigail drew back from the water’s edge, pushing Isla back too. “What is it?”

A flat, broad head, sleek and black, bristling with questing whiskers rose above the surface. A single red eye studied them. Wide piscian mouth opened to reveal rows and rows of small, pointed teeth.

“It’s either a dragon or a massive fish,” Isla whispered. “Come on. Let’s move away from water.” Could a fish this size leap? She didn’t want to find out. Back, within the shelter of the trees. “Fuck,” she whispered. “And to think, I remember throwing myself into those waters.”

“What? As a kid?” Abigail stared at her, incredulous. “You’re lucky it didn’t swallow you whole.”

“No,” Isla admitted. “Just over a month ago. On Shane’s birthday. I… well, let’s just say, he said something that pissed me off. And I, kinda went on a murderous rampage and went after… whatever it is… that lurks in this corner.”

“What the hell did he say?” Abigail stared at her, incredulous. “How’d he manage to piss you off? You guys are so, like, in love. It’s positively nauseating.” 

“Morris told him about Nathaniel,” she whispered. “Before I’d told anyone.”

“Oh. I’m guessing he didn’t take it too well?”

“Ah, no. Anyway, I remember standing on the edge of the lake, thinking about throwing myself into it.”

“Shit, Isla.” Abigail squeezed her shoulder. “You ever think like that again, you call me, okay?”

Isla nodded, blinking back tears. Fuck. She cried so damn easily, nowadays. “I… I think I may have, but… when I woke up, I was lying on my bed, naked, and soaking wet. I think, maybe I fugued out, or something? But,” she swallowed, “I dreamed about Jasper, and the prince in the castle at the heart of the abyss.”

Abigail whirled on her. “And you’re just telling me this now?” Her eyes blazed.

“I… I figured it was just a dream. A nightmare. Then… well, Shane disappeared and ... almost died. I guess my priorities kinda shifted.”

“Have you told Shane this? Any of this?”

“Hell no. He’s had a hard enough time believing about the monsters – and I’ve freaking physical evidence of them –” There was still a bat in her freezer. “Plus, he’s just starting to get better in his own head, no sense in dragging him into the insanity in mine.”

Abigail groaned. “I thought you guys had a ‘no more secrets’ rule going.” She shook her head. “Never mind. So, Jasper’s not really dead, he’s some kind of dark prince, living in – what, a castle?”

“I think it must be in the mines,” Isla explained. “That’s why Morris wants the farm.”

“Morris. Wants. The. Farm.” Abigail repeated slowly. “This just keeps getting better and better. We need to go back to your cottage and have a good catch-up. I feel there’s quite a bit that you’ve been hiding from me, cousin.”

“Sorry,” Isla muttered. Then paused, peered through the trees. “What’s that?”

“I’m still mad at you,” Abigail responded. “Don’t think you can distract me– Wait, is that a … cottage?”

It was. Made of stone with a slightly pinkish tint. The turfed roof had grown into a garden for wildflowers. The doorway gaped open, like a hungry mouth, door hanging on a single hinge.

They walked towards it, Abigail, for once, struck silent. Cigarette butts littered the ground near the door. Half crushed beneath a booted print.

Isla’s nose twitched, the scent of smoke hung in the air. Whomever had been here… it had been recent. Abigail drew out her flashlight, clutched it in her left hand, her sword held ready in her right. Isla held up her own sword, the amethyst in its hilt casting a pale blue radiance.

A sense of peaceful gloom engulfed her, as she stepped across the threshold. Senses alert to danger. 

“Hello,” Abigail croaked out in a harsh whisper. “Is anyone here?”

A few glass bottles, lined up neatly across a cold fireplace. One held the wilted remains of a daffodil. Isla took one down, tentatively sniffed it. “Whiskey,” she whispered. “I think.” The air reeked of smoke.

Abigail gave a low gasp, turned the flashlight into the corner, upon an arcane symbol, painted on the floor with dark brown paint. Black candles, melted into waxen lumps, at each point of the pentagram. Across the center a dead crow lay on its back, eyes gouged out, and gutted from breastbone to vent. Entrails and blood stained the flagstone floor.

“Come on,” Abigail’s voice shook. “We shouldn’t be here. We should… we should go.”

The crow’s wings twitched. 

“Holy Yoba,” Abigail breathed. Shadows crawled across the bird’s chest, stitching the edges of the gaping wound together. The scrawny neck arched and spasms jerked through its feathery body. It contorted, writhing from side to side, body twisting unnaturally. Abigail backed into Isla, clasped her hand. Their heart-beats raced together; Isla’s breath catching in her throat and the shadows drawing close, suffocatingly close.

The crow opened its beak, unleashed a harsh caw. Fiery-red pinpricks of light blazed from the hollows of its eyes. With a final, horrible twist, it flopped onto its feet, beat at the floor with its large black wings..

“Is-la,” it croaked. “We’ve been wait-ing for you.”

Isla drew her sword. The amethyst in the hilt blazed with ice-cold light. She knelt, never taking her eyes from the Void-cursed bird, which now stood erect, spread its wings, and tensed, ready to strike. Forcing her hand to be steady, she traced a rune in the dust caking the floor. Breathed to Abigail, “Run!”

Abigail, body tense beside her, needed no further encouragement. She bolted out the door. At the same instant, the crow sprang into the air.

“Come play with us.” Its voice was both one and many and as painful as nails on a chalkboard. Shadowy wings slashed the air, talons outstretched, glinting silver, sharp as razors. Isla pressed the amethyst to the rune, ignited it in a burst of white-blue light. The crow screeched, clawing and flapping at the magical shield. It wouldn’t be held for long. Isla followed Abigail, leaped over the threshold. Stumbled a little as she landed on her still-weak ankle. The Void crow, grown to the size of an eagle, burst from the cottage. Ink-black feathers scattered in its wake. The two women raced through the trees, leaping buttress roots and ducking beneath tree branches. An angry screech, and the monstrous crow scythed past, banked sharply and came back at them. Sunlight glinted off its talons. Too long, too sharp – a raptor’s grasp. Abigail’s sword flailed through the air. Missed, the bird, twisting in a manner that must surely be impossible, evaded the blow. Razor-sharp talons sliced a stinging slash across Isla’s forehead, blood dripping into her eyes. The taste of copper was sharp on her tongue. Her foot caught on a broken tree branch, sent her stumbling. A starburst of pain erupted from her ankle, but Abigail’s hand was on her arm, steadied her.

Her cousin’s voice, shrill with rising panic, “We need to get out of here!”

“I can’t. I can’t run,” Isla panted. The cramping ache of stitch burned down her right side, and her ankle throbbed with every heartbeat.

“Lean on me.” Abigail’s arm across her shoulders, taking her weight. Managed a few steps, then stumbled over another tree branch and tumbled to the forest floor.

“Leave me,” Isla hissed, wiping blood from her forehead. The crow had finished its glide, banked again, prepared to dive. “I’ll use my magic.”

Abigail disentangled herself. “I’m not leaving you,” she insisted. “If only… if only we had Hercules.”

He comes when you whistle. Isla remembered. She’d had little need to use it, but now… now. She pursed her lips, managed a feeble tweet.

“What are you doing?” Abigail’s hands tugged at her, tried to heave her up, but her ankle failed to support her. The crow swooped, and they threw themselves to the ground, shielding their heads. 

“Can you whistle?” Isla gasped. Sweat trickled down the back of her neck – or perhaps it was blood. The crow’s wings beat around her head, as it flapped upwards, prepared to dive bomb them again.

“What?” Abigail muttered. Then licked her lips, pursed her mouth, and let out an ear-piercing wolf whistle.

Isla flinched, then pushed Abigail to her feet. “Run,” she hissed. “It’s me that it’s after.”

“I’m not leaving you!” By Yoba, Abigail was stubborn. The crow circled back, its feathery bulk blocking out the sun. Claws outstretched, beak open, it barreled into Abigail, flung her to the ground in a spray of leaf litter.

“Is-la!” it screamed, swooping around to divebomb her again.

Something crashed up ahead. 

“Hercules!” Isla shrieked, feeling her heart leap with relief.

The bold, brave, beautiful horse galloped through the trees. Twigs and leaves were tangled in his mane. He skidded to a halt beside them, stepping restlessly. Fear trembling through him, eyes showing their whites. Abigail heaved Isla over his back, and she tangled her fingers in his mane, clutching. “Climb on,” she gasped.

“Can’t” Abigail replied. “He’s not strong enough for both of us.” 

Before Isla could protest, or slip from her precarious position, Abigail slapped the horse on the rump. “Run,” she hissed.

Hercules needed no further permission. He bolted, racing away so fast that Isla barely managed to hug her arms around his neck, and avoid sliding off in the mud. 

The crow shrieked in rage. Flew after them.

Panic radiated from Hercules. Isla could focus on nothing but the power of his muscles, the ground flashing beneath them. The whisper of wings, as the crow swooped again. Hercules reared sharply, and Isla slid from his back, landed on her rump, in a patch of weeds. Sunlight bathed her upturned face; they were out of the woods. Shadows bled from the crow’s eyes, from its open beak.

Hercules slashed at the rapidly-diminishing bird with his hooves, lunged with his blunt equine teeth. Sweat glistened on his flanks. And the shadow – the tendrils of darkness – snaked towards him. Crawled into his ears, up his nostrils, twisted and writhed into his open mouth.

“No,” Isla screamed. “Not Hercules.” She staggered to her feet, leaning heavily, as he dropped back to all fours, stomping and shaking his head as though trying to rid himself from the dark blight.

The crow let out a final ‘caw’ as the last shadow drained from it. A spasm passed along its body, wings stiffening, and it crashed to the ground, a broken husk.

Abigail burst from the trees, sword clutched in her hand. Hesitated at the sight before her. At poor Hercules, fighting against a battle that raged within. Foam dribbled from his mouth. For a moment, his eyes blazed red. Then Isla reached for him, put her hand on his rump.

“Hercules,” she pleaded through a veil of tears, blood and sweat. “You can fight it. I know you can.” 

He blinked, and the fiery redness was gone, replaced with gentle brown. Whinnied in fear. His skin was so cold, so clammy. Shivers passed up and down his body, then he gave huge, horrible spasm, and his legs folded beneath him. He collapsed, forcing Isla to stumbled back or be crushed. His legs spasmed again, and again, shadows leaking from his nose, ears, mouth, even his eyes.

“Oh Hercules,” Isla buried her head against his chest. Felt his great, heroic heart stutter and falter.

“No,” Isla sobbed against Hercules’s chest. “You can’t die. You can’t.” She balled her hands into fists, punched him in the chest, as though that would somehow help. As though she could force his heart to keep beating.

Abigail’s hand on her shoulder. “Heal him,” she whispered, dropping down to kneel beside her. 

“I can’t.” Isla scrubbed away the tears and blood.

“You’re a goddamn wizard,” Abigail’s voice was low, wobbly with grief. “You can do it.”

Isla drew the notebook from her pocket. There was a new crease in the cover, from their run through the forest. A gentle breeze rustled the pages, fluttered it open. “How to mend a broken heart,” she read, gave a hollow laugh. She dampened her fingers with her blood, her sweat, her tears, and began to trace the runes along the horse’s chest. “Please Yoba,” she whispered. “Shine your light upon us, and help him to heal.” A beam of sunlight fell upon her, and she managed a small smile. “Thank you.” Was it her imagination, or was Hercules’s stuttering, stumbling heartbeat getting stronger? No sense in getting her hopes up. Probably just wishful thinking. She rested the hilt of her sword against his chest, the amethyst against the chain of runes, and turned her attention to his head, crouched beside it. She ran her hand down his muzzle, held it before his nostrils. That was the faintest breath of wind she could feel, wasn’t it? Leaned in close, blew into his nostrils.

Hercules’s long eyelashes fluttered, his eyes opened – brown, beautiful, dark brown – and he snorted. Jerked his head back. Hoofs pawed at the ground, rolling him onto his knees. She threaded her fingers through his mane, wrapped her arms around his neck.

Abigail stared at her, eyes shining with delight. “You did it, Isla!”

Isla kissed Hercules on the top of his snout. He snorted at her, twisted his head away, as though unsure of what he’d done to receive such attention.

“Unless,” Abigail scrambled to her feet, forehead furrowed, “you’ve not healed him at all. Perhaps, you’ve turned him into a zombie?”

Isla glared at her. “Does he look like a zombie to you?”

With a mighty push, Hercules heaved himself to his feet. He stood for a moment, shook his head again, as though trying to clear it of a bad memory, then trotted towards the open barn. Isla staggered to her feet, using her sword for balance, until Abigail came and took her arm, and helped her after him.

Found him inside, nose buried in his food trough.

“Still think he’s a zombie?” Isla asked.

“Grains,” Abigail hissed in her spookiest voice, waving her hands in front of her, like she was one of the living dead. “Grains!”

“I’m going to call Marnie,” Isla replied. “See if she can send a vet over.” Wasn’t going to take any chances.

*

“He’ll come over at two,” she said, disconnecting the phone. Thank Yoba, Marnie hadn’t asked too many questions – Isla didn’t want to admit to how much danger she’d led the poor horse into. Felt the adrenaline rush come crashing down on her, and collapsed onto a hay bale. She buried her head in her hands, and let the grief overwhelm her. Abigail squished onto the bale beside her, held her as she sobbed.

After a time, Hercules came over, licked their hair, breathed in their face, and lipped at Abigail’s pockets, searching for treats.

“There’s some cave carrots in the fridge,” Isla said. “Um, can you bring the ice too please?” 

Abigail stood, saluted, and hurried off. 

Isla dragged over another hay bale, elevated her throbbing foot and scratched Hercules’s head. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, pressing her forehead against his muzzle, and laughing as he blew air in her face. “I’m sorry I’ve fucked up your life. Thank you for saving mine.” She wiped her hand across her forehead, disturbing the bloody scratches barely crusted across her hairline. They felt tender, and deep. Would they scar?

Abigail returned, set down their Void first aid kit and positioned herself on the bale beside Isla’s ankle. Isla tried not to flinch as her friend peeled her boot off, rolling down the sock to reveal it had swelled up again. Her fingers cool against the tender flesh.

“You might want to visit Harvey again,” she said, and passed Isla a bottle of water and a packet of painkillers. Isla downed two.

Where’s my carrot? Hercules seemed to be asking, shoving his nose in to sniff Abigail’s pockets again. Abigail laughed, fed him one of the carrots and scratched him behind the ears. He flicked them and nickered his gratitude.

“No hunger for brains then?” she asked him.

He snorted, danced away, tossing his mane. Looking, for all the world, like he was proud of himself. Maybe he was – he had every right to be.

‘You fought off the Void,” Isla said to him. She dabbed the healing elixir against the cuts in her forehead, shivering a little as the wound knitted itself back together; it felt like a thousand crawling ants.

“Right.” Abigail sat down on the hay bale beside her. “Tell me about the castle at the heart of the abyss, and this prince of the Void. And don’t leave anything out.” She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t care how outlandish it sounds. Your lake is some sort of manifestation of the Void, and there are monsters in my goddamn garden. At this rate, I’m prepared to believe pretty much anything.”

Isla took a deep breath, and another gulp of water, and began the tale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it wrong that this scene with Hercules felt like one of the most traumatic I've written? Turns out I hate the thought of hurting innocent animals even in fiction... (yet, I'm mostly okay with doing terrible things to human characters).
> 
> [BTW, I don't know if anyone has noticed, but many of my chapters are named after songs.]


	43. The Prince of the Void

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isla tells Abigail a tale of sacrifice and death.  
> A mere metaphor? Or something more?

“Once there were a man and a woman, and they were happy, and in love -- but there was one thing that would’ve made their life more complete – a child.”

(“Pretty much like my parents then?” Abigail interjected.)

“But after years of trying, of failing, they began to despair. Until, one day, the husband heard a rumor of a secret, magical place, deep in the bowels of the earth, where a single wish could be granted.”

(“There’s a price, I bet.”

“Of course there is. Now, do you want me to tell you the story, or not?”

“Okay, sorry, I’ll be good.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it.”)

“For days, and days – maybe longer, for time has no place, deep below the ground – he searched, facing many dangers, many challenges. Until, finally, just as his food was beginning to run out, and he feared he might never see the sun again, he found it.

“A ruined castle, the castle at the heart of the abyss.

“And beyond the maze of its walls, in the very heart of the castle...”

(“The heart of the castle at the heart of the abyss? Are you sure Elliot didn’t write this?”)

“There stood a tree. Its bark was black, and it bore no leaves, but a single golden fruit hung from its bough.

“The husband climbed the tree, and the bark was so rough that it tore the flesh from his hands, and bathed the branches in blood, but he climbed the tree, and plucked the fruit. Then carried it home for his wife, for it was the rarest fruit of all, and it contained the most potent of all gift: “The gift of life.

“His wife ate the fruit, and within a few weeks, it was confirmed – she was with child. And, around nine months later, on the coldest, darkest night of the year, he arrived, a child born in shadows and darkness. The couple were delighted, and they named their son Treasure, for he was precious to them, the dearest treasure they could ever have desired. “Treasure was a quiet child. He rarely cried, and, even more rarely laughed. He found no pleasure in what delights normal children. Instead, he delighted in dark pleasures: pulling wings from butterflies, crushing caterpillars between his fingers. For, the Void dwelt in his heart. And no matter how much his parents loved him, he could never let it go.

“Then, when Treasure had turned from toddler into child, fate blessed them with another baby. A golden-haired baby girl, full of joy and light. A girl who laughed at the way light danced on her window, who loved flowers, and rainbows.

“Treasure grew jealous, jealous of how much his sister was loved, and bitter at being forgotten, overshadowed by this new brightness.

“If only, he thought, she had never been born.

“Late one night, when his parents were sleeping, he wrapped his baby sister in his arms, and took her down to the lake. Now, the lake was forbidden to him – for it was a dangerous place, and neither he, nor his parents, could swim.”

“And his baby sister trusted him, and loved him, because she’d never known sorrow, never known hate, even though she lived with it.

“And he threw the baby into the lake.”

(“Shit, this isn’t a tale for the kids, is it just?”

“Hell no.”)

“But as his sister sunk beneath the inky waters, his foot slipped, and he plunged into the pool. The waters closed over his head, the shadows curled around him, dragging him down, down into the heart of the abyss. Because he had made his sacrifice, and the Void had called him home.”

(“And that’s the end?”

“Not yet.”)

“Treasure woke, and all around him was cold and dark and barren. An ancient castle, empty save for its ghosts. He roamed the walls, found treasures beyond imagining: gemstones and relics, ancient books and hidden knowledge. But no matter how hard he searched, no matter which stones he pressed, or steps he took, he could never escape. He was trapped forever, in this empty castle, at the heart of the abyss.”

“So what does it mean?” Abigail wondered. “Your lake… is his lake? But you remember swimming in it, as a child, right? It wasn’t corrupted then. Or maybe,” she pondered, circling the hay bales, “maybe the castle isn’t a set place. Maybe it moves.” She clicked her fingers, stared at Isla. “It’s linked to the storm, it has to be! Everything was okay, until after the storm – well, except I suppose Mona had been knocked-up by then, but there’s nothing particularly supernatural about teen sex. And then, bam, Jasper’s dead.”

“My grandfather killed him,” Isla whispered. 

“What?!”

“He told me, in my… my dream. Or maybe, just implied it strongly. I dunno. If the dream’s really real, and not some sort of weird trick of my subconscious, that is.” Had she read the story by then? She thought so – not in depth, no, just flicked her gaze over the lines, dismissed it as a really fucked-up dark fable, possibly a metaphor.

“Why would your grandfather kill Jasper? You think… Jasper is this prince? But this tale is really old – it was written before my father was even born.” She paced back and forth. “What do we know about Jasper’s family?”

“His father… disappeared? He was an archeologist?”

“Yes, precisely. Maybe… hell, maybe he unwittingly unleashed the Void or uncovered something he shouldn’t have. I wonder when Jasper was born? If it was the shortest day and the darkest night, that’d be a sure clue.”

“I was,” Isla whispered, feeling a chill down her spine. 

“What?” Abigail peered at her.

“Born on the shortest day and the longest night – the 22nd December, 1991. My mother went on about it in her speech, on my 21st birthday.”

“Obviously just coincidence,” Abigail remarked, ruffling Isla’s hair. “There’s no darkness in you.”

But Isla slid her fingers up her sleeve, stroked the long ragged scars, and wondered.


	44. Synergy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the anniversary of Mona's death, family and friends gather to help keep Shane's darkness at bay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Synergy" is one of my favorite words. 
> 
> I read a lot about alcohol dependency while writing this. I hadn't realized how dangerous it was - and how little you need to become dependent. It is something like 8+ standard drinks per week for women and 14+ for men (less if you're over 65). Also, it actually changes your body chemistry, meaning that going "cold turkey" can led to an extreme reaction and be potentially fatal.
> 
> So yes... definitely not something to come off of lightly - especially not when you've been using it to "self medicate" the way Shane has...

Shane stepped off the bus, and right into Isla’s embrace.

“Hey babe,” she whispered. “How are you holding up?”

He returned her tentative smile. Still couldn’t quite believe that she was his. But even seeing her beautiful smile, holding her in his arms, couldn’t quite thaw the ice chilling his heart.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Yeah. As long as I… as long as I don’t think about it too much.”

That had been easy enough at work – where he’d fed and watered the chicks, mucked out their pens, and helped Arthur collect the eggs. One disadvantage, he’d found, with free-ranging chickens was that they laid eggs everywhere. One advantage was that they followed him, clucking to catch his attention, like he was some sort of avian Pied Piper. 

“They know who feeds ‘em,” Arthur had joked. “Such fickle girls.”

It was harder, now he was back here, in Pelican Town. It had been eight years since she’d died, almost ten years since they’d left the Valley together, but her ghost still lingered. “I’m dying for a beer,” he muttered, more to himself than to Isla. It was easier, now he had work he enjoyed, now he had her, to distract himself from the drink. However, that fluttering panic had started in his chest; he longed to drown it. That familiar staccato rhythm: not-good-enough. You’re-not-good-enough. You’ll-never-be-good-enough. “I’ll permit you one,” Isla replied, “maybe two, in Mona’s memory.”

She threaded her fingers through his, squeezed his hand gently, and guided him through her farm. She was wearing the support boot again, he noticed, and limping slightly. He kissed her knuckles in concern. “Did you hurt your ankle again?”

She gave him a dismissive shrug. “I may have over-worked it yesterday.” 

Her wry smile felt slightly forced; she was putting on a brave face for him. Well, fair was fair. His head ached, and nausea roiled in his gut, but he forced a shaky smile in return. He owed Isla that much. And more.

He owed her everything.

He was so goddamn lucky, to have this second chance, but it was only a matter of time before he ruined it.

His hand was shaking, so he took it from her, shoved them both in his pockets. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked, biting her lower lip.

He nodded.

“You’re not going cold turkey, are you?” Concern shone in her eyes. “You know… they don’t recommend that you try that alone.”

“I know,” he groaned. Which was true – he did. The shrink had been quite specific: going through alcohol withdrawal at home, without medical supervision, could be fatal, and was rarely successful. He’d been given a pamphlet detailing all the warning signs. Hadn’t read it – but he knew what it said.

He’d tried to cut back, far too many times in the past. For Jas, for Marnie. And failed every time. Knew, this time, he needed to do it not for them – not even for Isla – but for himself. That this was his last chance to escape the abyss of the Void. But knowing was oh, so much easier, than doing.

Titus trotted past, tail raised. The big ginger cat paused to nuzzle him, stood on his hind legs, begging for a cuddle. He persisted, until Shane relented and scooped him up. 

“Yoba, you’re heavy.” The cat nestled into his chin, purring up a storm. ‘What’s the plan for tonight?” he asked, hoping to redirect the conversation away from himself.

Isla grinned at him, but her smile didn’t quite make it to her eyes. Dammit. They’d been together, four weeks and three days, she was starting to see the real him. Starting to realize what a fuck-up he was. No secrets, anymore, they’d agreed. What bullshit. He was already lying to her (palatable half-truths) and was fairly certain there was something she wasn’t telling him. 

“I thought we’d start with ‘Spirited Away’ since it’s undeniably the best,” she said. “Then follow it up with something lighter, maybe ‘Kiki’s Delivery Service.’ If Jas’s still awake after that, we can conclude with ‘Howl’s Moving Castle’.”

“And if she’s not?” He managed to summon a sly smile, was gratified to see it echoed in her face.

“Oh,” she replied, turning to face him and reaching up, to trace his face with her hand. “I’m sure we’ll think of some way to pass the time.” Her hand behind his head, drawing it down so that their lips met. The heat of her, those soft, luscious, lips. The gentle rake of her teeth. That was enough, to disperse some of his fear.

Titus yowled, wriggled free. Crouched low, ears back, glaring reproachfully at them.

“Sorry,” Isla laughed. And the light in her eyes made Shane want to snatch her up right there and then, and show her, without words, quite how much she meant to him. He settled for kissing her again, this time without a cat squashed between them.

Fuck. He’d fallen for her – was utterly, foolishly caught.

But she deserved so much better.

*

“You’re here!” Jasmine barreled out to greet them, flung herself into Shane’s arms. He caught her, laughing, and Isla’s heart melted. If only he could see, just how wonderful he really was? His insecurity felt like tiny flies that bit at her skin. “I made a cake!” Jas said.

Shane rose an eyebrow. “You made a cake?”

“Penny helped! And so did Vincent, except he really only licked the bowl clean. Put his head in it, and everything. How was work? Did you find lots of eggs?”

“Lots and lots and lots.” He set her back on the ground. Isla amazed at how quickly the tension evaporated from him. 

“We put eggs in our cake! It’s chocolate. I wanted to make a pink cake, but Penny said I’d have to wait until July, because melons take forever to grow.” She turned her smile to Isla. “Are you gonna grow melons, Miss Isla?”

“Most definitely,” she replied. “And peppers too.” She winked at Shane, which earned a more genuine smile than the previous ones. She knew what he was doing, that this was just another way of punishing himself, especially tonight, on this most tragic anniversary. Slipped her hand into his, arched on tiptoes to whisper in his ear, “You’re not alone.” 

“Are you going to stand out there all night?” Marnie called from the door. “Come in, try the cake, before Abigail, Sam and Vinny scoff the lot.”

Shane turned an incredulous gaze upon Isla. “Did you invite the whole town?”

“Of course not,” Isla replied. “Only your friends.” Grinned, and kissed his earlobe. “Oh, and Penny, as well. I told you, you’re not alone.”

Marnie cornered Isla in the kitchen. “How’s Hercules?” she asked in a low voice, and Isla couldn’t help but feel the guilt crush around her heart. She hadn’t told Marnie the full story, of course – Marnie was too practical to believe in possessed animals and living shadows – but Isla had been almost hysterical on the phone

. “Vet gave him a clean bill of health,” she said. “Said his vital signs all seemed fine – but the results from the blood tests won’t be through until early next week. He recommended that I keep things quiet for him over the next few days. Shouldn’t be hard to do. I guess, maybe I overreacted a bit?” She’d sat with him until late last night, even contemplated bedding down in the barn (but decided the hay bales would be too scratchy and uncomfortable). Then, this morning, she’d led him to the community center to graze on the long grass, while she presented the junimo with the mushroom, before taking him down to be fussed over by Haley. He’d received, perhaps, a few too many treats, but had been in good spirits when she’d shut him up in the barn that evening, the radio playing quietly (middle-of-the-road rock music, not Isla’s first choice – but he seemed to like it) so he didn’t get lonely.

Marnie’s smile of relief did little to alleviate the guilt. Shit. Marnie might not be Shane’s real family, but she was the closest thing to a mother he’d really had – and Isla hated that she couldn’t be completely honest with her. 

“I’d better take the popcorn through,” she said, taking the bag from the microwave. “We’re gonna have to start the movies soon.” 

Isla didn’t really know Penny, but Jasmine had wanted to bring her teacher along, and she had baked the cake. They crowded into the lounge, settling into armchairs and on the couch, eating cake. The kids – or, more probably, Penny – had done a decent job. The cake was moist, albeit a little heavy on the cocoa, and slightly burned around the edges. Jasmine and Vincent – chocolate icing smeared on their lips, and across Vincent’s chin – collapsed into beanbags. They giggled when they realized how difficult it was to get up and out of them. Penny sat herself demurely in one of the armchairs, hugging her handbag to her chest. Her thin mustard-colored jumper was threadbare, and there was a tiredness about her. She offered Isla a shy smile.

“Jas has told me a lot about you,” she said.

“All good, I hope?” Isla gave a small laugh. She curled up on the couch next to Shane, leaned against him. Loved the way he idly wrapped his arm around her shoulders, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Oh yes,” Penny replied with a smile. “I feel bad, for not introducing myself sooner.”

“Drop by sometime,” Isla replied, surprising herself (Since when did she start randomly inviting people over?). “Jasmine says you like books. I’ve got a bit of a library. Although, I’m afraid, it’s mostly fantasy.”

“But not nearly enough vampire-porn,” Abigail interjected.

“Thank you,” Penny replied, with a slightly forced laugh. “I find, when I’m lost in a book, it’s so easy to forget the realities of life, and be whisked away on a marvelous adventure.” “Are you ready for a marvelous adventure?” Abigail piped up, crouched in front of the DVD player. Sam dimmed the lights, and the opening scene began.

Shane’s fingers stroked Isla’s hair. She nuzzled up against his neck, kissed the pulse at his throat. “You can do it,” she whispered into his ear. “You’re amazing.”

His silent chuckle vibrated against her.

Jasmine barely made it through the first film, eyelids drooping as the end credits scrolled down the screen.

“She’s still not sleeping well, is she?” she hissed to Shane. He shook his head.

“It’s weird,” he said, “but she’s better when Titus is with her. Perhaps we should get her a cat of her own.” He stood, stretched, and walked over to scoop her up from the beanbag. She muttered, wrapped her arms around his neck. “How are you holding up, sport?” he asked Vincent.

Vincent yawned sleepily. “I’m good,” he said, flashed Shane a thumbs up.

“I should get you home,” Sam grumbled. “Mom wanted you home by eight, and that movie was long.”

“Awww,” Vincent complained, “but I wanted pizza.”

“Emily’ll be here soon,” Abigail commented, glancing at her phone. “She’s just left the saloon. Had a bit of a rush there.” She collapsed on the couch in the spot Shane had vacated, hooking her legs over the arm rest and planting her head in Isla’s lap. “Great film. Mona and I watched it when we were eight. We both refused to eat bacon after that,” she chuckled. “And Mona stopped and spoke to every pig she saw.” A shadow crossed her features. “One day,” – she lowered her voice – “she confessed to me that she was always nice to them, in case… in case one was her mother.”

Isla risked a glance at Shane. Saw not, as she feared, his dark mask, but something else, an open-eyed wonder. “So that was why,” he whispered. “I never realized.” His laugh was tinged with sadness. “She always saw the magic in everything, did our Mona. Until...” (Until the end, Isla finished in her head). He trailed his fingers along Jasmine’s cheek. “A bit like our Jas. Anyway, I’d better get her into bed. You guys can start the next one without me. I won’t be long.”

He steadied Jasmine in his arms, carried her from the room. Isla extracted herself from beneath Abigail (to some protestation) and followed him. “You doing okay?” she asked him in a low whisper. “Would you like me to get you that beer I promised?” She drew back the covers, so that he could lay Jasmine in the middle of her enormous bed.

Shane shook his head. “Nah,” he said. “I think… I think I’ll just have a grape juice. I’ve heard it’s a good… alternative.” He drew the blankets up to Jasmine’s chin. Isla put her hand on his, felt it tremble beneath her.

“Shane,” she whispered. “Are you sure this is the right thing to do?”

He swallowed hard, turned to face her. Tears glistened in his eyes. “I need to stop, Isla,” his voice a hoarse whisper. “I need to kill this beast. Before… before it consumes me.”

“Oh Shane,” Isla whispered. Feeling fluttering panic combined with a swell of so much damned love that she was worried her heart might explode. She kissed the tears away. “I love you.” The words came out before she’d considered them, considered what they implied.

“You do?” Incredulity in his voice. “But… I’m an alcoholic, Isla. And so damned,” voice lowered to a whisper, “fucked up. How could you possibly love someone like me?” She answered him not with words, but with a kiss. Deep, passionate, despite the little girl sleeping mere feet away from them, or the large group of people in the room next door, celebrating the arrival of pizza.

His fingers tangled in her hair. Lips so soft and warm, his tongue gently probing. Finally, they came up for air. 

“Well,” Isla breathed. “Are you going to say it?” Didn’t know what she’d do if those three little words weren’t reciprocated. But was fairly certain from the hard, heat pressed against her belly, and the aching, burning need he had awakened within her, that they would be.

“As you wish,” he whispered against her lips.

Laughing silently, she elbowed him. Say it.

“Gods,” he whispered, brushing her hair back from her face, lowering his mouth to purr in her ear, the vibrations making her toes tingle. “Isla Alexander, you have bewitched me, stolen my heart, and made me want to be a better person. And...” he paused, nibbled her earlobe, making her moan in pleasure and frustration, whispered, “I love you.”


	45. Spirited Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Events take a twist to the fantastical.

Shane lay awake, sheets tangled around him, Isla pressed up against him. Her slender arm pale against the dark hairs on his chest, as though reassuring herself that he were still there. He wanted to sleep, needed to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes, the shades of doubt returned:

Never-going-to-last. You’re-mine. A ravenous black beast, with glowing red eyes, that crouched over him, drooling. His skin felt uncomfortably clammy but he knew, from the checklist, that this was to be expected.

Just ride it out, Shane, he told himself. Prozac may have leashed the shadow beast, but anxiety continued to nip at him, sending his pulse racing.

He needed to move. A walk might help. Cool breeze, brushing his skin. With great care, he eased out from under Isla’s arm. She grumbled in her sleep, muttered something under her breath, grabbed at him. He took her hand, brought it to his lips, kissed her fingers.

“I’ll be okay,” he whispered. “I just need some fresh air.”

“Okay,” she mumbled. “Don’t go near the castle.”

Crazy sleep talk. He sighed, shook his head, allowed himself a smile. The carpet was rough beneath his feet, as he picked his way across the piles of discarded clothes. Slid open the wardrobe door before he realized what he was doing. But his secret stash of alcohol was no longer there. He’d given it to Sam. Suggested the kid ‘destroy’ it as he see fit. Cautioned him about the dangers of consuming it in excess.

“Yes Dad,” Sam had teased him.

Dad. It was funny, the way that word made him feel. Jas had called him ‘dad’ for a bit, when she was really young. Then, he’d left her living with Marnie (abandoned her), to enroll in college, and look how that had ended up (a cooling bath, an empty bottle of pills). No. He sat on the edge of the bed, forehead pressed against folded arms. Forced the shadow beast back, into submission.

“You can do this Shane.”

No-you’re-too-weak. Always-weak.

“Fuck you,” he growled.

Behind him, Isla whimpered in her sleep. “Beware, the prince.”

He rose his head, allowed himself to gaze at her. Eyes twitching beneath her closed eyes. Ran his fingers down her cheek, feeling his heart swell with joy as he teased a half-smile from her oh-so kissable mouth. Leaned forward, planted a kiss upon the tip of her nose. She smacked her lips, reached for him. He caught her hand in his.

“I love you,” he whispered again. It was easier, this time, to admit it, now her eyes weren’t upon him. “I’ve loved you...” Since you let me into your house. Even though I was totally plastered and rambling like a fool. “...forever.” Pressed her hand to his cheek. Her fingers were so cool. He hadn’t realized, until then, how flushed his skin felt. He grabbed the water bottle beside the bed, a sports drink, loaded with electrolytes. Downed it thirstily. Pulled on his sweat pants.

“I won’t be long,” he whispered. Just a short walk, outside, into the yard. Eased open the door, padded outside; the gravel pathway bit into his bared feet.

A cool breeze kissed the droplets beading across his bare chest. Above, the stars spread across the sky in an endless silver-studded tapestry. He breathed in the scent of the night, the musk of dung and hay, the fragrant sharpness of pine. Far off, a night bird screeched. The outside light sensed his motion and clicked on, an irresistible lure to hundreds of tiny moths and, hunting them, only slightly larger furry micro-bats. 

It had been eight years since Mona had died. (“Are you Shane Cavanagh? Please sit down sir. I’m sorry, but there’s been an accident.”). And his heart still ached at the loss of her. A brightness, doused by a system that no longer cared, leaving only a tiny bright spark of herself behind.

Jasmine. 

He took a deep breath, drinking in the cool night air, then a sound – a voice – sent icy tendrils shivering down his spine. 

“Jasmine. Oh Jasmine. Come out and play.”

Fuck, was he hallucinating? That had been on the checklist hadn’t it? One of the more serious side effects. Or was it… was it worse than that? 

Was it real?

He padded around the house, starting a little as the light blinked off, plunging him into darkness. Froze at the sliding creak of a window being pushed up. A voice, tiny against the darkness, called out, “Hello?”

“Jas,” he whispered, his breath catching on her name. Stay inside! 

Quelled his shaking hands, fought back the panic that fluttered in his chest. Ran around the house, stumbled against the fence. A dark, stout figure stood outside her window, facing it. He spoke, his voice a low murmur: deep, yet with a familiar hint of snail-oil charm. “Would you like to meet your father? He’s a prince.”

“No!” Shane cried, scrambled over the fence. The wood rasped rough against his palms. 

“My father?” Jas, leaned out the window, a halo of light surrounding her. “A prince?”

Hands shaking too hard, heart tearing itself apart with panic, Shane crested the fence, dropped to the other side. Stumbled. Knees struck the ground. 

Jas scrambled out the window, approached the dark figure. She was so tiny, so vulnerable.

“No!” he cried again, scrambling to his feet. 

The dark figure turned towards him. He couldn’t see a face, but could sense a hungry, malevolent smile. The specter rose one hand, flicked its fingers idly and dark, oily tentacles curled form the shadows.

A tightening about his neck. Couldn’t breathe. He flailed, clutched at his throat, but the shadows slipped through his fingers. Lights flashed before his eyes.

The specter open its palm, offered it to Jasmine, leaned forward, whispered something.

Her tiny hand, placed on top of the specter’s. It closed its fingers over hers, wrapped its arms around her, and carried her away. Within a stuttering, choking heartbeat, the two were swallowed by the night.

The pressure fell from Shane’s throat, air flooding in, leaving him gasping and choking. His pulse a racing, urgent tempo, insisting: find-them-find-them-find-them. With a yowling and a screech, Titus leaped from Jasmine’s window, bounded towards him, tail puffed into a bottle brush, ears pressed close against his skull. He skidded to a halt before Shane, turned his amber gaze upon the dazed man. Whiskers arched forward, nose pressed, hard and cold, against Shane’s. A brief pulse of heat, like the touch of a sunbeam, and Shane found his breath had steadied, and the throb-throb-throb in his head dissipated to a dull thud. Then the cat – now the size of a bobcat – bounded off. Shane staggered to his feet, raced after Titus. He had to find Jas. He had to. He couldn’t… he couldn’t let the shadows take her.

Vivid hallucinations, his brain nagged. Confusion.

Delirium.

*

Isla woke, found the bed empty, nothing but a patch of warmth to suggest that he had ever been there. Her pulse raced in her throat. Something had woken her, a sound? A scream?

She scrambled out of bed, ran to the window. The sash had been slid up, cool air dancing through the gap, the curtains fluttering against them,as though trying to escape.

“Shane,” she whispered into the darkness. No need to panic. He’s probably just gone for a walk. But she wasn’t convincing anyone – certainly not herself.

Forcing her racing pulse to steady, she took a deep breath, closed her eyes, sought with her senses for his oh-so familiar presence. Found it. North, headed towards her farm. What was he doing?

Beyond it, the darkness seethed.

“The Void,” she whispered. She fumbled for her phone, found it sitting on the sideboard. Dialed Abigail.

Was gratified that her cousin answered on the third ring.

“What?” her voice slurred with sleep.

“It’s Shane,” Isla almost sobbed into the phone. “He’s gone… meet me at the lake. Bring the swords.”

It took too damned long to get dressed, and strap herself into the support boot, but Isla knew she’d never manage without it. She scrambled out the window, feet striking the dirt. Movement, from Jasmine’s room, caught her eye. The curtains, flapping out the open window sash.

“Fuck,” she whispered.

– he wrapped his baby sister in his arms, and took her down to the lake –

No, not Jasmine. Shane would never hurt Jasmine. Never.

Unless…

She ran, casting her senses as wide as she could. Tasted the edge of Jasmine’s burning brightness. But its vibrancy felt muted, as though stifled, and cloaked in darkness.

Pain ripped up her leg with every footfall. Clenched her teeth against it. Raced up the path to the farm. The gate stood ajar. Had she left it that way? couldn’t remember. Didn’t matter. She scrambled through, and almost bumped into Abigail, running down from Isla’s cottage, Titus bounding at her side.

“Your sword,” Abigail panted, thrusting it into her hands. The amethyst flared with cold blue light.

“He’s taken Jasmine,” Isla whispered, shocked at how broken her voice sounded. “I think...”

“No,” Abigail snapped. “He wouldn’t.” She fumbled at her throat. Unclasped Mona’s necklace, and pressed it into Isla’s hands. “Take this. It’s been… humming, all evening. I think… I think Mona wants to help us.”

Isla swallowed, closed her hand over the teardrop. “He might. I… I think the Void has got inside his head. He’s quit… quit drinking.”

A frown. “But that’s good, isn’t it?”

Isla shook her head, clasped the necklace about her throat. “No time to explain. We have to save her – save them.” Please, let them be okay. Both of them. Beyond them, moonlight shimmered on inky black waters.

“I have to jump into the lake,” she whispered.

“What? No!” Abigail gaped, stepped in front of her. “You can’t. That’s suicide!”

Isla pushed past her, hobbled for the lake shore. Waves rippled the dark water, splashed over the bank and drowned the tiny beach as the monstrous fish writhed. The spines down its length cut through the surface. She took off her jacket, cast it aside, walked towards the bank.

“Distract it,” she shouted to Abigail.

“You’re insane!” her cousin shouted back. But she bent, grabbed a stone, and lobbed it at the giant beast.

It erupted from the water – a catfish the length of a school bus – lunged for her, its mouth gaping wide enough to swallow the world, barbels arching forward. Abigail greeted it with her sword, plunged it between the gaping jaws, into the roof of its mouth. It writhed, struggling to shake away the pain. Abigail dodged its writhing body, the spines on its pectoral fins. Titus yowled, and crouched low, his tail twitching and ears flat against his head.

Isla didn’t wait, didn’t hesitate; she clutched her sword between her hands, and jumped, feet first, into the lake. 


	46. Light into the Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isla follows her lover and his niece into the heart of the abyss and comes face to face with the Prince of the Void.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Faithful readers - you're nearly there!

The waters closed in around Isla, as thick and suffocating as ink. Then her feet hit cold stone. The runes on her belly prickled, but this time, at least, she’d kept her clothes – thank Yoba – and they clung to her, soaking wet. The icy chill of the subterranean cavern danced across her damp skin, brushing her with the touch of winter.

She stood in a hallway, her sword clutched in her hands, fingers stiffening with the deep cold. Deep shadows lurked in the corners, almost amorphous, creeping towards her like heavy rain clouds.

“Hello?” she called, her voice sounding tiny and weak, swallowed by the darkness. “Shane? Jasper?”

Dripping water, and a low whispering sibilance, not unlike static, was all that answered her. 

She took a step, then another, water squished in her shoes, oozed between her toes. Another step.

A thin, weak cry came from above. Her heart kicked in her chest.

Nathaniel? 

A memory of weight in her arms. Flailing and jerking, as another spasm overcame his tiny, fragile body. The harsh gasp as his breathing stopped, then a rattling rasp as it began again. The heavy, horrible feeling of both relief and despair.

“You wished your baby dead.” 

“You broke him.”

“You break everything.”

The creeping shadows split into long fingers that traced their way up her body, caressed her cheeks. Their brush was unsubstantial, but chilling.

“You are delicious. You are broken." 

“No!” Isla shouted, her voice swallowed by the shadows, muffled.

“You are ours now.”

Fingers tensed, almost froze, Isla clutched the sword double-handed. The glow of the amethyst washed over her hands. She slashed the sign of the vessel with the blade. The shadows drew back, roiling against the walls.

“I will never be yours,” she growled. It’s not real, just an illusion.

A figure began to coalesce.

“Our darkness shall devour the world.” 

“Not on my watch!” 

Isla threw herself at the shadow-monstrosity. It opened its gaping maw and breathed a ball of molten ice at her. She flung herself aside, hit the wall hard, felt pain erupt up her arm. The ball of ice struck stone, and shattered into a thousand tiny shards. Shrapnel stung her face, her hands. She carved another rune in the air; the blade blazed with light. Peeling her arching body from the wall, she slashed through the shadow-brute, split it in two. The two halves blurred, became unsubstantial, reformed into two large, slavering hounds. Their eyes blazed with frozen-fire. In synchronicity, they pounced. Isla pressed her back against the wall, slashed at them. Ducked a swinging paw, felt teeth graze her cheek. 

“I... Did... Not... Kill... My... Son,” she shouted between slashes. 

The cry came again, but this time it wasn’t that of a tiny, incomplete baby, but that of a child, sobbing her despair.

“Jasmine!” 

Mona’s necklace flared with light and heat, and the hounds fell back.

“I’m coming!” Isla ran, feet skidding and squelching on the icy floor, down the corridor. Stumbled slightly as she passed through an archway, and felt immense space around her. 

“Welcome back, Isla,” Jasper’s voices, thick and cloying as honey, as deep as the darkness. She looked up, into those fathomless eyes. He lounged lazily in a great silver throne, beneath the spreading, bare branches of a black-barked tree. And, cradled in his lap, a small form.

“Jasmine,” Isla gasped.

The bows in her hair had come undone; her braids in tangles, framed her face. There were raccoons on her pajamas, and sparkly bunny slippers on her feet. She looked so small, so fragile. Isla felt her heart clench. She stepped forward. Jasmine turned her head, to face her, looking without seeing; her eyes were blank and empty, disturbingly reminiscent of Nathaniel’s. 

“Let her go,” she whispered. “Please.”

Jasper smiled, an oily, malicious smile. He ran his pale fingers down Jasmine’s cheek. “Why?” he whispered. The echoes of the Void had gone; he spoke in his voice alone. “She’s my daughter,” he whispered. Leaned forward, planted a kiss upon her forehead. Her lips twitched, into a mockery of a smile. “You want to live with me now, don’t you?” “Yes,” Jasmine replied, but there was no emotion, nothing. She had all the animation of the golem-puppet.

“See.” His smile was all wickedness and menace. “She wants to be with her daddy.”

Isla stepped forward, pointed the sword at him, and stared down its blade. The glow from the amethyst haloed her hands. “You may be her father. But you’re not her daddy,” she growled.

Jasper laughed, and the symphony of the Void joined him.

“Then who is?” he chuckled. “Her drunkard uncle? He hurt me once, but he’ll never hurt me again.”

Isla’s heart sputtered painfully. She became aware, then, that sometime between meeting Abigail and entering the lair, she’d lost her sense of Shane. Jasmine’s essence still burned before her, weak, and cloaked, like a gutting candle, but Shane… Shane was gone.

No, not gone, not completely, but dwindled, a bright-burning flame reduced to a smoldering coal.

“What have you done to him,” she whispered.

“Nothing,” Jasper replied. “I didn’t need to.”

“But I took great pleasure in it.” A figure stepped forward, cloaked in shadows. They drew back, dissipated, to unveil a well-dressed businessman with a sinister smile. “Hello wife,” Morris hissed. “Turns out lover-boy was weak. Guess too much alcohol really does rot the brain.”

“What are you doing here?” Isla twisted the blade in her hands, stepped forward, pressed the point of it to her ex-husband’s throat.

He laughed, held his hands up in mock surrender. “What do you think I’m doing?” he said. “I’ve been bringing it gifts. Tribute.”

“The crow!” Isla breathed.

Morris cocked his head at her. “Indeed, my sweet. Rabbits. The crow. The child: but, alas, Jasper would not permit me to sacrifice her, although the Void would have loved to taste her.”

“But why,” Isla whispered. “Why would you want to sell your soul to that abomination?”

“Abomination!” Morris laughed, a deep, belly-laugh that made her skin creep with the feet of a thousand spiders. “The Void is no abomination – it is the darkness that lurks in all of us. And the Void has power below, JojaCorp has power above. Together, we shall have a merger more powerful than any government, than even Yoba’s light.”

“And I shall be free,” Jasper replied, tongue flashing across razor-sharp teeth. “When darkness falls upon the world above, I shall walk from the abyss.”

Jasmine whimpered, buried her face against his chest.

“Oh, you don’t like the abyss, my sweet?” 

Isla wanted to run to her, scoop the child up in her arms, cradle her close, and bring the light back into her eyes. But she kept her hands steady, and the blade pressed against Morris’s throat.

“What have you done to Shane?” she hissed. Felt the shadows tugging at her ankles, crawling up her thighs. Thick, oily, tasting her.

The runes on her belly burned.

Morris flicked his upraised wrist, gestured at the tree behind the throne.

Shane hung, upside-down, bound by one ankle. Motionless. His essence almost burned out. She couldn’t let him die.

“Put the sword down,” Morris whispered, perhaps sensing the change in her. “You don’t want to kill me. I’m your husband. You loved me, once, didn’t you?”

“You persuaded me to birth a doomed child,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “Convinced me it was my fault.” She pressed the sword forward, nicked his neck. “You fucked me on his grave.” Blood beaded on the blade. The amethyst flared into vibrant white-light, surrounding her in an iridescent halo. Morris stumbled back, caught his foot on a raised flagstone, fell backwards to the floor. Isla crouched over him. The shadows coiled against her; they no longer felt like her enemies. No, her enemy was here, on his back, on the floor. The man who’d brought so much pain upon her, who’d followed her into her haven. One slash, and she’d be free from him forever. One slash, and his blood would soak into the floor. She drew back the blade, planted her foot on his chest.

“Kill him,” the shadows whispered. “Make him bleed.”

He’d tried to break Shane’s mind. Had maybe broken his body.

“Kill him.”

NO.

She hefted the hilt, crashed it down on Morris’s temple. Felt the weight of it compact with his forehead, and the hard crunch as his head struck the flagstone below. Blood trickled down his face.

His breath caught, stalled for a second.

Oh shit, I’ve killed him.

Then he unleashed a great, shuddering gasp, and a spasm passed through his body, his limbs twitching and jerking like he was a marionette. The seizure stopped, and he gasped again. Isla dropped to his side, checked his pulse, his airways. He was breathing, his pulse steady. Unconscious. She rolled him into the recovery position. 

Perhaps he’d recover. Perhaps he wouldn’t. Isla found she didn’t much care.

Slow, lazy clapping from the throne. Jasper beamed at her. “Well done,” he said. Cradling Jasmine in his arms, he stood, placed her reverently on the throne, and stepped towards Isla. “There’s a darkness in you,” he whispered. The shadowy tendrils crawled along her limbs, coiled between her thighs. “And now that you’re most likely a widow” – a nod at Morris’s crumpled form – “a prince needs a bride.” 

“No,” Shane breathed, the word little more than a whisper, from a throat raw with pain. 

Isla heard him, felt it in her senses. Alive. Conscious. Coherent, more-or-less. She felt her heart leap with joy, but fought to contain it. Had Jasper noticed? No, his fathomless eyes were focused intently upon her. Keep it that way. “I’ll never marry you,” she hissed. “You’re a monster.”

“Aren’t we all?” Jasper cocked his head on one side. “Think of it, Isla.” A shadow crept up her cheek and caressed her throat. Its touch was like a whisper. Like a kiss. “We could raise Jasmine together – our own precious heir. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? To be a mother to her.”

She stepped back, traced her fingers over the runes on her stomach, sticky, once more, as blood seeped from them. “Yes,” she whispered. “I’d like that very much indeed.”

He stepped into her, and she tried to step back, but felt the wall cold and hard behind her. The shadows coiled their way up, under her too-loose shirt. Recoiled at the runes. Against her throat, the teardrop gem hummed. She unclasped it, palmed it, the chain trailing down her wrist. His hand was on her face now, stroking her cheek. His touch chilled. “You remind me of her.” His voice came in a hoarse whisper. “I loved her, you know. She meant everything to me. I may be a monster, a prince of darkness, Isla Alexander, but I can still feel. Still hunger. Still love.” His lips pressed against hers, and she tried not to recoil at the frozen chill of them. He tasted of the Void. Of ice and frozen secrets. Of shadows and pain. She brought her hands up to his throat, smearing bloody fingerprints across his flesh and, as quick as she could, clasped Mona’s necklace around his neck. 

She felt the jolt pass through him, and he staggered back, bringing his hand to the gem about his throat. It glowed with white incandescence. His eyes were no longer a fathomless abyss. He blinked once, twice, his irises turning a hazel-brown, flecked with green. Stared at his fingers, tips damp with her blood, in amazement, then at her. “What have you done to me?” he whispered, forehead furrowing. “Mona?” Stumbled back. The shadowy tendrils shrunk back into the corners of the chamber. Held his hands up before his face, as though they were alien to him. The pallid fingertips were slowly flooding with color, his skin turning from chalk-white to pale tan. He stumbled back, sat down abruptly.

Isla ignored him rushed past the throne, to Shane’s hanging form, knelt before him. Pressed her lips against his. Found them cold. “You can’t die,” she whispered. “I’m not going through this bullshit again.” Scrambled up the tree, fingers fumbling, slick with her blood, at the rope.

“Jasper,” she whispered. “Help me. Please help me – help him.” Wasn’t sure if he’d obey – this young man that had been a monster, but now stared at her as though she were a goddess. He came to her though, helped her ease Shane from the tree, to the ground.

His skin felt clammy and damp beneath her touch. She kissed his eyelids, patted his cheek. Received no response. The spark within him gutting. Heartbeat fluttering and weak. Her blood on her hands, she traced the healing runes across his chest. (“To mend a broken heart”). She’d saved Hercules – she could save him. Had to save him.

Didn’t know what she’d do if she couldn’t.

“Please,” she whispered into his lips (so cold, so pale). “I love you. Don’t leave me. Don’t you dare leave me.”

Fuck, she could feel him slipping away. Could feel his body shutting down, betraying him.

Her hands on his chest. Hand on hand. Compressions. One… Two…(stay with me, please, stay with me)… twenty-nine… thirty.

Pinch his nose, tilt his chin, breath into his mouth.

(Live… damn you… live!)

One… two...

“Help me,” she pleaded to Jasper. But the prince of the abyss was gone now, replaced with this bewildered young man. “Can you get us back… to the surface?” Where there were doctors, and machines. 

He shook his head. “I don’t… I don’t know.”

“What fucking use are you?” she shouted. He flinched away, as though she’d slapped him.

… twenty-nine… thirty.

Head pressed against his chest. The thrum of muscles contracting, pulsing on their own.. (Please… oh please… on please… let it not be my imagination).

Her mouth over his again, giving her breath to him.

*

Shane shivered, skin clammy, shivering and hot at the same time. Feverish. One of the symptoms. Delusions. Another. The specter had taken Jasmine. But the specter wasn’t real. Nothing was real. All was shadows and darkness and clammy oppressive heat. And pain. His head throbbed, a staccato rhythm of nails driven into his skull.

Dead-you’re-dead-you’re-dead.

But you couldn’t hurt, when you were dead, could you? 

And he couldn’t be dead. Isla would kill him if he died.

Jasper was alive. The monsters were real.

Nothing-is-real. It’s-all-in-your-head.

You’re-dead-you’re-dead-you’re-dead.

He’d never see Jasmine grow up.

Never hold Isla again.

Never-never-never-never.

You’re-dead-you’re-dead.

It’s-all-in-your-head.

A hand, reaching to him, through the thick haze of shadows. A whispered voice. “Shane.”

“Mona?” 

The shadows parted, and she stood before him. Hair cascading around her shoulders in gentle curls, a smile lighting up her face. Her eyes as blue as a clear summer sky. “Brother,” she said. “I’ve missed you.” Her arms around him, head against his chest. “You’ve been through so much.”

Shane brushed his fingers through her hair. “I failed you,” he whispered. “I let the darkness take you.”

She danced back, stabbed him in the chest with her forefinger, hard enough to make him flinch. “No,” she said. “I let the darkness take me. I, I thought there was nothing worth living for.” Her shoulders slumped. “And I was wrong, and stupid – and too damned impulsive. I made a dumb-ass decision that I could never take back.” She buried her head against his chest. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Shane curled his arm around her. She felt so damn real. So alive. Her breath cool upon his cheek, tears damp against his chest. “We’re together again now,” he whispered, pressing a kiss into her hair. 

She stood back, pushed her hands hard against his chest. “No,” she said. “We’re not. Not yet.” Tears ran down her cheeks. “I abandoned my daughter, screwed up my life. I don’t get to screw up yours as well. Someone has to keep an eye on her. To disapprove of her first boyfriend. To celebrate when she graduates top of her goddamn class. To watch as she becomes the president of the fucking world.”

Her pushes turned to punches, beating in time with his heart.

“I was too stupid. Too stubborn. Too fucking selfish. I traded in everything good, for shadows and ash – but you… you still have a choice.  
You need to choose to live.”

Her fists bet against his chest one final time, and he made his choice.


	47. Out of the Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Penultimate Chapter.

His eyes, the deep blue of the twilight sky. His heartbeat, the sweetest music she’d ever heard. Her lips brushed his, drinking in the warmth of him.

“You’re alive,” she whispered, voice cracking, tears clouding her vision.

He blinked at her, blinked again. Focused. 

“Isla,” he breathed her name like it was a caress. “Where are we?”

Half-sobbing, she pressed her face to his, her hands tracing his chest, palm resting above his heart. “The castle at the heart of the abyss.”

“You’re not… you’re real? Not a… dream.”

She took his hand, clasped it to her chest. “Not a dream. But… we need to get out of here. Need to get… to get home.”

But how?

A small figure at her side, scrambling in, beneath her arm. “Uncle Shane?” Jasmine whispered. 

He reached for her, and Isla helped him into a sitting position, Jasmine burrowing into his arms.

“I saw your mother,” he whispered into the girl’s hair, gave a small, choking, grief-filled laugh. “She… she told me I had to keep an eye on you.”

“She sent you back,” Isla whispered into Shane’s damp hair. She wrapped her arms around them both. This family she’d made for herself, when her own family fragmented. 

“Bullied me into it, more like.” Another laugh, followed by a wince of pain. “Your mother sure was fierce, kiddo.”

Movement, out of the corner of her eye. Jasper, standing behind them, looking small, and lost. Not too long ago, he’d been a monster, but now he just felt…

Alone.

Isla inclined her head at him, and he stepped, tentatively, forward. Knelt before them, and laid her sword on the floor. The amethyst in the pommel still glowed.

“Take them home,” he whispered.

“How?” Isla breathed.

“What are you doing here?” Shane growled. “You’re dead.”

A smile twitched on Jasper’s pale, thin face. A sad, broken smile. “Seems like you’re not the only one blessed with a second chance,” he whispered. Then, to Isla, “You know how.”

Jasmine stared at him, her eyes wide. “You’re… you’re my dad,” she breathed, reached towards him. Isla felt Shane stiffen, and squeezed his shoulder.

Jasper’s long fingers closed around Jasmine’s hand. He pressed her fingers to his lips. “No,” he whispered. “I may be your father. But he, he’s your dad.”

Isla closed her fingers around the amethyst. The cold heat of it tickled against her palm, tingling through her fingers and up her arm. With her other arm still wrapped around Shane, Jasmine curled into his embrace, she drew their love in close, shrouding all three of them in it.

“It’s time to go home,” she whispered.

The fragmenting was gentler this time. 

Thick softness beneath them. 

Clarity returned.

A tangle of limbs: Shane shivering against her chest. Jasmine’s surprised gasp.

“We’re in your cottage! You tele-im-ported us!”

Shane trembled against her, his bared skin slick with sweat. Eyes glazing. Isla fumbled, found her phone, flicked in on. Relief as it found the signal. She thumbed in the emergency number.

“Hang in there,” she whispered against his clammy skin, the racing pulse of his heart. “I love you.” Eyes on Jasmine, who stared at her uncle with fear in her eyes. “Both of you” – blinked back the tears that beaded in her eyes – “So. Damned. Much.”

*

“You’re a damned fool, Shane Cavanagh,” Doctor Harvey growled, although his voice held more relief than anger. “We advised you not to attempt detox alone. You could have died.” He swallowed, pushed his glasses back up his nose. “Should have died.”

Shane squeezed Isla’s hand. “I wasn’t alone,” he whispered.

The machine beeped, monitoring his heartbeat. Strong. Steady. Needle in his arm. Electrodes stuck to his chest. Bruises, so many bruises, stark against his pale skin.

“Your husband kicked my ass,” he groaned, tracing a large purple mark near his right bicep. “Fuck, I’m out of shape.”

“Ex-huband,” Isla replied, casting Harvey a sideways glance, but the doctor feigned disinterest. She leaned forward, pressed her lips against the bruise. “Your heart’s strong,” she whispered, resting her head against his chest. “But your bloody stubborn head is stronger.”

He reached over, brushed away her tears. “What happens now, doc? When can I go home?”

“We’ll need to monitor you over the weekend,” the doctor replied. “You’re over the worst of the symptoms but...”

“… no sense in taking any risks?” Shane finished for him.

Harvey barked a laugh. “There could still some after-effects. Overuse of alcohol alters your body chemistry. We’ll tie you to the bed if we have to.”

“Oooh, didn’t know you were into that kinky stuff,” Shane joked. Isla nudged him in the shoulder, gently, with her knuckles.

“Well, I see your terrible sense of humor still remains intact,” Harvey scowled at him. “It’s not going to get you discharged early this time.” 

“So, when can I go home?” his tone serious. He hated hospitals. The cold sterility, the sharp clean scent of anesthetic. The constant beep-beep-beep. 

“If all goes well – and you behave yourself – Monday afternoon.”

*

Where was she? Marnie and Jasmine had claimed him from the hospital, helped him home, and settled him – despite his protesting that he wasn’t an invalid, that Harvey had given him a clean bill of health and he could damn well help himself – onto the couch. But where was Isla?

“She had business to attend to, in Zuzu,” was all Marnie would tell him.

“Important business,” Jasmine added. She shoved Isla’s book – his birthday present – into his hands. “Read me the next chapter.” Curled up against his chest, peered up at him through the mess of her curls, added, “Please, dad.”

The word wrapped him in warmth. Dad. He’d felt he surrendered his right to the title, when he’d left Jasmine in Marnie’s care, to pursue his own (selfish) endeavors. Realized, now, that no-one begrudged him for it. Jasmine had needed stability – and he’d need a chance to find his place in the world. Had struggled, failed, and been led, right back here, to Pelican Town, the countryside, the chickens – and Isla.

Where was she?

But his girl – the daughter of his heart – was staring up at him, eyes shining in hopeful expectation, so he flicked open the book, and began to read.

*

An hour later, the sound of the door opening sent a thrill leaping through his heart. He stopped, mid-sentence, to Jas’s disappointment, as Isla walked in the door.

She looked radiant, her eyes shining. An angel. His angel.

Jas jumped up, ran to her. Isla wrapped her arms around the girl, kissed her on the head, whispered something in her ear. Jas nodded, face serious, and darted from the room. Leaving them alone.

Shane rose from the couch, covered the floor in four strides.

“I’m fine,” he said, to the concern in her expression. “Doctor’s verdict is I’ve got another oh fifty-sixty years in me.”

She wrapped her arms around him, squeezed him tight. Surprisingly strong, for her petite size – must be all the farm work. “I’m sorry I couldn’t meet you at the hospital,” she whispered into his chest.

“That’s okay.” He stroked his hand through her hair, felt her purr up against him, like a pleased cat. “But where were you?”

She drew a piece of paper from her pocket, slightly crumpled about the edges. Thrust it into his hands. A photocopied sheet.

“Proof,” she said. “Of an uncontested divorce. Legally,” she grinned, “I’m free. Morris,” she spat his name out, as though it tasted foul, “no longer has any hold over me. It helped, of course, that he didn’t bother to show up for the hearing.” A cloud passed over her face then, and Shane knew what she was thinking – that the man lay dead, deep below the earth, in the caves beneath her farm. “JojaCorp’s lawyer fought,” she continued, “but my lawyer is fucking fierce, and made it clear that if the contesting party didn’t care to show, the corporation behind him didn’t have a leg to stand on.”

“That’s great,” Shane whispered, wrapping her arms around her, trying to absorb the guilt from her. Couldn’t stand to see her hurting, with the thought that she might have – somehow – killed the man that had brought her so much pain. And his heart thrilled at the thought: she can be mine, now, all mine – and I hers.


	48. Every End is a New Beginning

“I’ve got something for you,” Shane crouched before Jas, one hand cradled under his shirt.

Jas’s eyes gleamed with curiosity and excitement. “But it's not my birthday.”

“This is a special surprise,” he said. “Put out your hands. And close your eyes.”

Eyes closed tight, hands thrust out, cupped before her, the girl could hardly contain her excitement. “Is it more bunny slippers?” she asked.

“This is better than sparkly bunny slippers,” Shane replied. “Are your eyes closed tight?” 

A quick nod.

“No peeking, right?”

“Of course not.” Indignant at the accusation.

He took the gift from beneath his shirt, set it gently in her cupped hands. 

“Oh,” she said. “It’s warm – and wiggly! What is it?” One eye sneaked open. “Oh, a chick!”

A small downy head rose over the edge of her cupped hands, the little chicken regarding her with beady eyes. 

“She’s blue!”

“He’s blue.” And he was, not the bright, artificial blue of Bluebell or the other dyed chicks, but a duskier, slate-blue.

“But I thought all the chickens were girls.” Jas reached forward, stroking the tip of her finger ever so gently across his small red comb-mohawk.

“Most are,” Shane replied. “But this little fellow managed to sneak through.” The gender testing, clearly, wasn’t 100% accurate. Arthur had been somewhat distraught – he already had enough roosters, and hated having to euthanize healthy birds (although his technique was considerably more humane than others in the industry); Shane’s heart had ached for the tiny creature. “What are you going to call him?”

Jas pondered the question very seriously, chewing on her lower lip, forehead creasing. “He deserves a good name,” she said. “Not a flower name, because he’s a boy. Um, maybe Inigo – like the great swordsman.”

Shane rolled his eyes. He’d enjoyed the movie, yes, but Jas had become a little obsessed with it. They could now recite most of the lines.

“How about Indigo?” he suggested. “Because he’s blue.”

“No, dad,” she insisted, pouting. “His name’s Inigo.”

Not fair, going straight for the ‘d’ word – every time she said it, it was like a bright electric shock to the heart. By Yoba, she had him wrapped around her finger. “As you wish,” he said, which made her laugh, then added, “Yes, I know what that means. We’ve only seen that movie like, ten billion times” – only a small exaggeration. Then he scooped her – chick and all – into his arms. “But if he turns into a vengeful warrior, I’m holding you entirely responsible.”

*

“There’s someone here to see you.” Abigail craned her head around the coop door, her lips twisted into a slightly feral smile. Isla stood, Bluebell and Orchid falling back in disappointment as she stopped fussing over them. Behind Abigail, stood a tall, slender man, his hair falling to his shoulders in mouse-brown tangles.

“Hi,” said Jasper, his voice wobbled, and he hugged himself, like he was worried Isla might smite him. So different from the casual coldness of the prince of the abyss. So undeniably human. “I, um, I made it out of the mines. And came to… came to say ‘thank you’.” He reached his hand out, watched the sunlight play across his fingers. “For setting me free.”

“You’re welcome, I guess.” Isla grunted. Still wasn’t sure how she felt about his restoration. He’d had Jasmine kidnapped, lured Shane into his underworld, almost killed him in the process. His salvation had been entirely instinctual, a happy (she supposed) accident. “What are you going to do now?” she asked.

Jasper shivered. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “Abigail says… I’ve been gone almost ten years. My mother buried me. My brother mourned me. How do you think they would feel,” he asked, “to have me walk back into their life now? To find out their grief was a lie?”

“Grief is never a lie,” Isla replied. “I imagine they might be angry – you did let them mourn for ten years – but mostly, they’ll feel blessed. To have a second chance.” As she had, as Shane had, as everyone had – except poor Mona.

And Morris. Marlon and Abigail had entered the mines, searching for the businessman, but found no sign of him – alive or dead. It was almost as though the Void had devoured him.

Jasper nodded, stepped forward and took her hands in his. She tried not to flinch back, told herself he wasn’t the monster, not anymore. (Just a poor, frightened young man who lost ten years of his life to shadows and darkness).

“I loved her,” he said, his voice low, choked with emotion. “With all my heart. But we were young, and foolish, and thought we were invincible. We planned to run away,” he whispered. “We knew… knew the authorities would drag us apart. Would take our baby away. Were going to jump a train, head somewhere we could make a fresh start, start our family. We had no money – but we had gems, from the mines. We were greedy. We went too dark, too deep.”

“You found the castle.”

He nodded. “And ate the fruit.”

“The Void corrupts,” Isla whispered.

“It awakens the darkness inside us,” he said. “Feeds the shadows that lurk in our hearts. I had ambitions… but, please believe me. I never meant to hurt Mona – nor Jasmine.” He released his grip, let his hands fall to his side. “I’m sorry. I’ll understand, if you don’t want me in her life. Shane’s her father, in every way that matters – and you, Isla Alexander – you will make an excellent mother.” A choking sob. “Probably better than Mona even would. But, I would like to get to know her, if I could?” 

Isla stared at him, into the green and brown of his eyes, bright with emotion, with compassion. Gave a curt nod. “It’s not my place to decide,” she said. “But I’ll talk to Shane.” The joy in his eyes, in his heart, reflected incandescent in his aura.

*

“Well, he’s not a sexy vampire,” Abigail mused, “but Prince of the Void has a kinda nice ring to it, don’t you think? And he is kinda cute.” 

The two women walked along the shores of the lake, Titus twining in and out of their ankles. The waters were clearer now, and it felt as though some of the gloom had lifted from the wilderness corner. 

Isla scooped up a stone, tossed it into the water, watched it skip once, twice, then sink beneath the surface. Something stirred and splashed in a flash of silver. “Ex-Prince of the Void,” Isla corrected. “Also, he’s your deceased sister’s boyfriend, and father to your niece. Doesn’t that feel, I dunno, a little bit wrong to you?”

“Mona wouldn’t mind,” Abigail said, authoritatively. “Heck, they were just kids – if she hadn’t died, she’d probably have left him for someone darker, or taller, by now.”

“Darker than the Prince of the Void?” Isla rose her eyebrows. 

“Oh, you know what I mean.” Abigail bounced a stone on her hand. Skimmed it across the water. Once, twice, thrice… six times until it sunk. She whooped, and mimed a high-five at Isla. “I’m just saying, he’s been out of the world for ten years. Someone’s gonna need to teach him how things have changed.”

“You’re incorrigible.” Isla sighed. “And when are you moving home?”

“Oh,” Abigail replied. “I’m almost twenty-five years old, I think it’s probably time I moved out, made a life for myself. I mean, I’d still visit for meals and stuff. They’d expect that.”

“You’re not moving into my farmhouse.” Isla glared at her pointedly.

“Of course not,” she replied. “’sides it’s far too crowded now that Shane’s sleeping over every other night. Nah, I was thinking – what’s Robin like with stone?” She glanced pointedly through the trees, where the wildflower-roofed cottage was just barely visible. Small, colorful creatures darted through the tangle of branches.

“You want to live in my jungle?”

“I’m the warrior,” she replied. “You’re the wizard. The Void is right fucking here.” She stomped her foot, startling the junimo that had clustered in the trees around them, eager for their tribute.

Abigail reached into her pocket, drew out a handful of squished gifts: a bunch of grapes, a bright pink sweet pea and a pungent-scented spice berry. “Sorry guys,” she said, held them out flat on her palm. The green one – Abigail had named it Emerald – was the boldest, jumping first to her shoulder, than snatched up the grapes, bouncing away.

“Okay,” Isla said. Then added, when Abigail looked at her quizzically. “Okay, you can move into the cottage – I’ll talk to Robin, get it fixed up. We’ll have to clear some of the trees, get solar panels. And,” she added, with a wry grin, “I’ll expect you to pay rent.”

Abigail whooped again. “Deal!” she cried, high-fiving Isla so hard that she almost dislocated her wrist. Then paused, narrowed her eyes, “Wait – how much rent?”

*

Shane and Isla sat on the dock, feet trailing in the water. Summer was upon them, bathing the water in golden light, illuminating the tiny, flickering fish below. Across, near the far bank, where the water was shallower, the kids – and big kids – were playing some sort of aquatic version of tag. Jasper was currently “it”, racing the others and trying to dunk them under. Isla and Shane watched as he lunged for Jasmine, but she darted away, quick as a fish herself.

“Once upon a time, I would’ve happily killed him,” Shane said quietly. “But now, looking at him, I’m glad I didn’t.” He reached over, took Isla’s hand in his, and squeezed it, before bringing it to his mouth and pressing a kiss upon her knuckles. “And really, I suppose we should be grateful. Because, without him, we wouldn’t have Jas.”

“Mona would be so proud,” Isla whispered, leaning over to nip him on the ear.

“Mona is proud,” he said, with so much sureness Isla felt the strength of it in her chest. “If only there were something she could do, to be here too.”

“Maybe she is,” Isla replied, gestured at the trees, the butterflies that fluttered among the boughs, the junimo that chirped cheerfully, chasing after them. “Maybe she’s all around us. In Yoba’s light.”

Shane snorted, ever the atheist, but didn’t dispute her.

A splash, and laughter, as Abigail jumped onto Jasper’s shoulders, forcing him under the water. The two wrestled for a few seconds, before bursting to the surface.

“Isla,” Shane whispered, tone suddenly serious. He took both her hands in his, twisted his body so that they were face to face. “There’s something… something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

His expression was so solemn, and the excitement that begun to bubble in Isla’s chest threatened to overflow; she had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. Nodded instead, trying to keep her face neutral.

“Well,” he said, and his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “You know, sometimes, it’s gonna be hard, and sometimes… the darkness still feels like its crushing in on me. But… you’re my perfect drug, Isla Alexander and, you are the catalyst that makes me want to be a better version of myself. Together we are so much better than the sums of our parts.” “Synergy,” she whispered.

“Yes, and, and… are you trying not to laugh?” He ruffled his hand through his hair, blushed and looked away. “This sounded better, when I rehearsed it in the mirror.”

She grabbed his chin, drew his eyes so that their gaze met, and pressed her forehead against his. “The answer’s ‘yes’ Shane Cavanagh,” she whispered into his lips. “A thousand times, yes.”

“But I haven’t asked the question yet,” he replied, sounding flustered.

“Will you marry me?” she asked him, nipping his lower lip.

He groaned. “God, Isla. Of course, yes! But I was supposed to ask – I have a ring, and everything.” He fumbled for his pocket.

“Good.” She caught his hand, entwined her fingers with his, and kissed him, long and deep. He tasted of salt, of happiness, and sunshine. They broke apart, and Isla drew her head back, shouted across the water, at their friends. “He said ‘YES!’”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading my first Stardew 'Fic. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. In fact, I had so much of a blast with the characters, that I'm still working on them.
> 
> "Harmony" is completely written but still awaiting final edits. It spans from 1987-2019 (where it ties in with this one) and tells the tale of Harmony Andrews, a teenager sent to Stardew to stay with her grandparents, and basically make a new life for herself. It features, among (many) other things, more detail about the storm of 2009, Shane (and Mona) as kids, more Void-lore and a lot of our beloved wizard and warrior. It also gives the story of why Pelican Town came to be the ghost town it is today.
> 
> "Reborn" which I am currently working on, follows on directly from "Broken" and focuses on well, I think you can guess which characters (maybe?) and will hopefully tie up the Void/Joja stuff I've set in motion. If not, I do have a vague idea for one featuring Sebastian, mainly because I've figured out one potential reason why he doesn't like Isla (however, it will also ruin the potentiality of him having a romance with Abigail - which wasn't going to happen in my SDF anyway, but might disappoint some fans of the game).
> 
> Anyway, thanks! Until next time :)
> 
> PS: I may yet add an epilogue to this one.


	49. The Void Corrupts

Alone, abandoned – severed from their host by an enemy long dead -- the shadows stirred. They seethed, filled with a hunger they could not quench. But one tiny trace of warmth remained, in the deep heart of the abyss. The shadows reached for him, tendrils of deepest night that crept up his prone body, tasting him.

Oh, he was delicious! 

His desires, so tantalizingly strong. His ambition – a feast!

Oh, he would do nicely! A worthy successor to that weakling child. 

Deep, in the bowels of the earth, in the frozen castle at the heart of the abyss, the forgotten man stirred. He groaned, long and low, as he drew himself upright, muscles and nerve-endings screaming with the motion; they were so stiff, so cold, his warmth leached into the ice-cold flagstones.

Pain, at the back of his head, and his hand strayed up, to tentatively touch the flesh behind his ear. Flinched as his fingers encountered softness, splintered bone, crusted with dried blood.

Was he alive or was he dead?

His memories slipped through his fingers like the reflections of a ghost of a shadow within a dream.

And he was hungry. So very hungry.


End file.
